


Of Lost and Broken Things

by Kydoimos



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: All Sorts of Current Abuse, Daryl Dixon & Rick Grimes Friendship, Hurt Daryl Dixon, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26653759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kydoimos/pseuds/Kydoimos
Summary: The Wolves capture Daryl, and their leader wants to know what it will take for him to give up Alexandria's location.Rick is desperate to get his brother back, but doesn't know where to look.
Comments: 42
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is based sometime around the end of season 5/beginning of season 6. I'm going to conveniently ignore the whole walkers in the quarry storyline, and change things up to suit my dark purposes as far as The Wolves are concerned.  
> I started writing this in past-tense and then switched to present. I did read through to try and correct all the grammar, but there's a chance I may have missed some so apologies in advance. Thanks for reading, let me know what you think.

**Of Lost and Broken Things**

**Chapter One**  
  
Sitting in that car and surrounded by walkers, Daryl can't help but blame himself. He should have known that this was a trap, should have _seen._ He hadn't taken the time to look properly, and now it was going to get both him and the kid killed. He tells Aaron that he should make a run for it, that he'll cover- but the offer is refused. Together, Aaron says. They'll go together.  
Daryl takes a final draw on his cigarette, strings his crossbow, unsheathes his knife, gives the door a hard push. Several walkers are jolted back, and it gives him a chance to plunge the blade right through the eye of the closest. He slides over the bonnet of the car, wrenching free of the rotting hands trying to grab him, shooting another that's about to sink its teeth into Aaron's shoulder.

“Run, get to the gate! I'm right behind you!” He yells in Aaron's direction.

They both start to run, but a walker lunges at him out of nowhere, and Daryl's forced to throw himself away from the gnawing teeth at the last second. Aaron's fighting hard, too consumed in battling through the dead to notice that Daryl's in danger, but it doesn't matter. If he can just get the kid to safety, he'll figure out something for himself. There's no time to reload his crossbow, he can barely sink his knife into one walker before another is upon him. He grabs two by the hair and brings their heads together with a sickening _crunch_ , hurling the corpses at those still coming. He can hear the blood rushing through his head, his heart is pounding- then a gunshot. Several more follow, and the walkers surrounding him are falling. For moment, Daryl knows a burst of relief. He thinks stupidly that Rick has come to save them. Or Abraham, or Glenn, maybe even Carol.  
He stands staring in the direction of the gunfire, and doesn't hear the shot, doesn't see the bullet that rips through his shoulder.

* * *

Everything is hazy. He seems to be in motion, but that makes no sense since he's keeping perfectly still. There's a sound floating in the airspace around him, and he strains to hear.

> ' _I hear hurricanes a-blowing_
> 
> _I know the end is coming soon_ '

It's a familiar sound, and he doesn't know why.

> ' _I fear rivers overflowing_
> 
> _I hear the voice of rage and ruin_ '

He's in pain, but he can't figure out what's causing it.

> ' _Don't go round tonight,_
> 
> _it's bound to take your life_ '

Why can't he move? Where is he?

> ' _There's a bad moon on the rise_ '

For a while, Daryl is aware of nothing. When this feeling gives way and his faculties start to return, he is suddenly and terribly aware of everything. He's been shot once, twice. He can't move due to the metal shackles pinning him down, and the sound he hears is music. He remembers the song too, remembers sitting on a barstool at their local bar back home, sipping beer with these same lyrics ringing in his ears. Halfway through, Merle had risen drunkenly from his seat, singing along out of key and mooning the poor waitress at the bar. They'd both been banned for a week.  
There's nothing he can do now, except bleed like a stuck pig and hope the song doesn't end too soon.

* * *

“Rick!” The shout comes from afar, and it's Michonne who points out the distant figure pelting towards their house, kicking up dust in his wake. “Rick!”

“Is that Aaron?” Michonne asks, squinting into the distance with her hand shielding her eyes.

“Rick!” Louder, more insistent this time.

“What's going on?” Carl is at his father's shoulder in a second, sounding worried. “What is it now?”

“I don't know. I better go find out.” Rick passes Judith to Carl, and runs from their porch to meet Aaron, Michonne at his side. The man doesn't look good. He's splattered with blood and his expression is wild and panicked, all wide-eyed terror and shaking limbs.

“Tell us what's going on, Aaron.” Michonne says calmly, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. Aaron looks at Rick, and he feels the world start to spin around him as silent understanding passes between them. Rick knows.

“Daryl?” He asks, hands already on his hips as he starts to pace back and forth. Aaron nods, raising a hand in a placating gesture.

“He's still alive, Rick- or at least, I think-”

“You _think_?” Rick interrupts, coming to a sudden halt. “You don't know?”

“He was shot. But they took him away. I don't know who. It was a trap, Rick, there were walkers everywhere. He told me to run, said he was right behind me- I,” Aaron drops his head to look at his hands, seeming to become aware of the dried blood coating them. “I thought he was, I _swear_ I thought he was right behind me, but- I got out of the fence. And he wasn't right behind me.” Rick's foot taps the ground impatiently, and he tries to quell the fear bubbling in his gut.

“What happened then?” Michonne asks gently, still squeezing Aaron's arm.

“I turned back, thought he'd been trying to draw the walkers away. He was surrounded, so I started running back towards him- but then they started to drop and I thought that someone had come to rescue us,” Aaron's eyes are bright with tears and his voice still rings with shock. “But when all the walkers were down-” He breaks off, looking away and pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb.

“They shot him?” Rick asks urgently, taking a step closer. Aaron nods.

“Twice. After the first shot, he turns to me and yells at me to get the hell out. He told me to get back here and tell you. Then they shot him again and he went down. I don't think they could see where I was, or...” His voice trails away. Rick and Michonne share a look.

“Were you followed?” She asks sharply, clearly thinking along the same vein as Rick.

“No. I didn't go straight for the car, I hid. A couple of guys came out and dragged Daryl into the back of a truck, but I didn't have clear line of sight. I saw him moving, saw him take a swing, he was alive then.” A sob rises in Aaron's throat. “But I just let them take him. I just let them-”

“No,” It would be so easy for Rick to let him take blame, but that won't help Daryl. “The fact that you weren't seen is a miracle in itself. If you'd gone back, the sniper would've picked you off too. At least this way we know what's going on.” He ran a hand over his jaw, still unused to the smooth, unshaven skin beneath his fingertips. “How long ago did this happen? How long has it taken you to get back?”

“Four days. Had some car trouble out on the road.” Four days. A long time to be with enemies unknown.

“Michonne, we need to act fast on this. Go and tell everyone what's happened. Anyone who's coming should meet us by the gate in ten minutes.” Michonne is already moving, running back towards the houses. “And tell Carol to get our weapons from the armory!” He yells at her retreating back. He turns back. “You up to showing us where it went down?” Aaron is still shaking, but Rick can see the steely glare of determination in his eyes.

* * *

Daryl opens his eyes. He had been dreaming, he realises. A good dream, about being back at Alexandria with his people. It had been one of those dreams that made reawakening in his cage all the more cruel, because when he wakes up it's the nightmare which greets him. He finds he is still naked and chained hand and foot to the iron brackets nailed in the stone wall.  
He knows he lost a good amount of blood when he was attacked; he can feel it in the weakness that pervades him. Someone has cleaned and dressed the bullet wounds, but they keeps reopening and seeping blood so that the bandages are soaked and dark. He'll be lucky not to get an infection. He'll be lucky if that's the worst thing to happen to him.  
His wrists and ankles are raw and encrusted with blood from his continued attempts to free himself. The worst chain was the one bound around his throat. It gave him no opportunity to fight back, no chance to defend himself, because every movement he made gave the risk of asphyxiation.  
Sometimes, Daryl wonders if his captors are trying to give him a choice, but it's not the choice to fight. Sometimes, he wonders if he should take it.

All sense of time has abandoned him since his capture. Out under the open sky, he could take one glance at the sun's position and know the hour of the day. He could use the twinkling patterns of stars to navigate, he could survive using only the materials given to him within a densely wooded forest. That was were he felt most at home. Surviving, that was what came natural.  
Nothing about this new existence felt natural. He has no idea how long he's been trapped in his cage, has no way of knowing. He is being fed infrequently, his questions never answered, his chains never broken, by the same man. Tall and thin, with a pointed face, gray hair and beard, and cold, dark eyes. Daryl's first impression of the man is that he looks something like a rat. In time, that's what he comes to name the man.  
In the first days, when he'd still had the energy to fight and enough dignity to care, he would try to cover his shame when his food and water was brought, unleashing a torrent of abuse at the Rat. No answer ever came.  
Daryl aches with the desire to ask questions, to be sure his community is safe, but he's too afraid of the answers, too afraid of putting his friends in more danger than they had already are. Did his captors know about Alexandria? Did they know that an established town was right on their doorstep, ripe for the plunder? Had they captured Aaron? Daryl hopes not. He _thinks_ he gave enough of a distraction to let him slip away, but he couldn't be sure. The thought of Aaron, stripped and chained like he himself, makes him sick. Added to that, he can't help but think that if they have Aaron too, then Rick has no idea of what's coming for him.  
And then, of course, there's the big question: what do they want with him? A thousand reasons had come to him already, and none had proven true so far. He remembers the Hispanic kid they'd captured early on, and traded in exchange for Glenn at that Nursing Home back in Atlanta. He thinks of Terminus and them all on their knees, and the way the blood had spattered the trough before them when the kid's throat had been cut. He thinks of Beth, and her being kidnapped and held on the false promise of safety.  
Daryl reasons that it's possible he's being held hostage, and that negotiations are already taking place for his return. He tries to repress thoughts of what Rick would be willing to give in exchange for his own life.  
It doesn't seem likely they're keeping him to eat, and they aren't forcing him to work as Beth had been.  
What did that leave? _What did they want with him?_ He wants to know, and yet doesn't want the answer.

The rattle of a key in his cage door wakes him, as it often does. For a moment the breath is trapped in his throat as the chain tightens, constricting his airway, and he splutters and coughs as the Rat and two other men step into the room. Daryl knows instantly that something is different this time around. There's no plate of food being offered to him, no bottled water.

“You were beaten as a child.” The words are softly spoken, but Daryl is so used to the quiet now that they startle him all over again. He stares at the men standing over him with fiery hatred, fists curled tightly in his lap. the Rat leans over him, his own gaze equally intense. “You were beaten,” He says again, even more quietly than before. “As a child.” It's a statement rather than a question, and Daryl gives no reply. This seems to be the wrong thing to do. All it takes is the slightest nod of the Rat's head, and one of his henchmen punches him so hard in the face that his head jerks back, lights popping behind his closed eyelids. The Rat is still staring at him, and his cold expression turns the blood in Daryl's veins to ice. “You will answer me, when I speak to you.” He says offhandedly, as though calmly berating a petulant child. A few more seconds pass, before Daryl gives a slow, hesitant nod.

“Yeah.” The word is gravel in his throat. The Rat nods, and Daryl wonders how it could possibly matter. He hadn't been a child in decades. Never had been one, really.

“We know you live in a walled community not far from here. You are going to tell us where to find it.” Another statement, spoken so cool and casual that they might as well have been discussing the weather. All the men present knew, however, that it was loaded with threat, and Daryl knew he wouldn't answer. He would _not_ answer. They would have to kill him, he decided, before he gave up anything that could help them kill his people. Seconds ticked by, with the only noise coming from Daryl's chains clinking softly as he shifted his position.

“No.” Another inclination of the Rat's head, and Daryl receives a harsh kick to the chest with enough force to crack a rib. The chain closes tight around his windpipe as he reels back, and for an awful moment he truly believes he will die like this, stripped of all dignity and choking to death in his dank cage. The men watch apathetically as he fights to reclaim his breath, one of the henchman even picking the dirt out from underneath his nails. “Why you doin' this?” Daryl grunts, cupping his chained hands around the bruise already starting to form on his chest. Nobody answers him. They turn around, and leave him to the darkness once more. The lock clicks behind them.

* * *

Rick had told his group to meet in ten minutes, but they were gathered in five. All of them, save Eugene, whom Rosita had ordered to stay in the infirmary to watch over Tara.  
They were back out on the road again, and Rick couldn't help but wonder if he was making a mistake in taking them all out of Alexandria. Would they be allowed back in, after everything that had happened between himself and Pete? But he couldn't worry about that now. If they had to, they would meet that bridge when they got to it. He can only think about getting Daryl back, _that's_ what's important.  
Rick drives, his knuckles white on the wheel.

* * *

They were back again, the Rat and his men. Standing in the doorway, framed by a light so bright that Daryl has to close his eyes against it. He has a sudden, aching desire to feel the warmth of the sun on his battered skin, or a light breeze through his hair. The henchmen advance on him, and the wish for sunlight turns to a wish for a knife to drive through their thick skulls. Daryl has an odd sense of knowing them by now, even though neither has spoken a word to him in the three or four times they have come to see him. He doesn't know their names or the way their voices sound, but the feeling of their fists against his flesh and their heavy boots against his bones is as familiar to him as anything now. He knows that one will always stand at the Rat's left side and the other his right, and so Daryl thinks of them as Left and Right. They're both heavily muscled and broad in the chest.

The awful choking chain had been removed some days ago, leaving only his wrists and ankles bound, and the temporary relief it had given him had made his head spin. He knew they'd only removed it because they thought his fight was starting to disintegrate. They had beaten and battered him while the Rat watched and asked unanswered questions, and now they thought him breaking. ' _You don't know me,_ ' Daryl keeps thinking, trying to ignore the sick sense of pleasure it gives him to be underestimated. ' _You don't know shit about me._ '.

The cold seems to be permeating in his very bones, but Daryl tries hard to repress the shaking as the three men enter his cage. He would be asked questions again today, about Alexandria and Rick and the supplies they had, and he wouldn't answer a single one. Maybe today would be the day that they beat him to death, and then he'd be somewhere that none of this shit could hurt him. Maybe not.

Without a word, Left and Right pull him to his feet, as unblushing at Daryl's nudity as he himself had come to be. the Rat stands before him, his eyes great voids of black in the dark cage. He says not a word, but he watches his captive carefully as his hands move towards the waistband of his pants. Daryl watches him in return, eyes narrow, following the movements. The belt buckle is undone, the long strip of leather sliding free. the Rat curls the belt in his hands, pulls it taut. The sound sends shards of ice to Daryl's gut, and for a moment he is a child again, standing before the fury of his father's wrath. He reclaims control again almost instantly, but he can tell by the glint in the tall man's eye that he has seen, and that he knows. In that moment, Daryl realises that the Rat knows just which buttons to push. For the first time, Daryl is scared.

“Turn him around,” He says softly to Left and Right. “Hold him against the wall.” Daryl is forced against the cold stone before he can even think to fight, and he wonders vaguely where his reflexes have gone since his time in captivity.

“Don't do this,” He grunts, pulling hard against the men holding him still. “I ain't gonna tell you shit. There ain't no point in this.” The Rat ignores him.

“You are going to tell us where your camp is.”

“I won't.”

There's a few moments where no one says anything. Then comes the sound of the belt whistling through the air. Daryl hears the crack against his skin before he feels it.

* * *

  
There's nothing to find. The walkers not shot down seem to have been herded back inside their traps, ready for the next victim. All that's left of Daryl is a pool of blood in the middle of the lot. Rick stares at it, while the others discuss their next move.

“That's the car we were trapped in,” Aaron points, and they all move over to search it. They find nothing that will help, although Rick hadn't really expected them to. Then they follow the trail of blood as far as it goes, right up to the edge of the fencing. Rick wishes he could track like Daryl could, wonders why he never took the time to have a few lessons from their group expert. He moves away from the others, scanning the horizon as if he hopes to be shown the way. A groan from Aaron pulls him back to the fold.

“You alright?”

“Rick, I've just realised. I- I dropped my pack, and it's not here. I dropped the pictures.” It feels as though Rick's heart has plummeted into his stomach.

“The ones of Alexandria?”

“Yeah. I mean, they won't know how to get there, but,” Aaron swallows audibly. “They'll know we're there.” Rick takes a few seconds to think it over, and Aaron seems to take his silence for anger. “I'm so sorry, Rick.” Maggie reaches for his hand and gives it a squeeze.

“You don't need to apologise Aaron.” Rick nods his agreement.

“Maggie's right, there's no need. You couldn't have stopped for them even if you had known you dropped them. Could you have lost them somewhere else?” Aaron shrugs helplessly.

“I really don't know.”

“Maybe this is a good thing,” Rosita interjects, standing next to Abraham with her arms folded. “They don't know where we are yet, but they'll know we have things to trade.”

“For Daryl? That'll be a lot of cans of SpaghettiOs.” Abraham says seriously. Rosita punches him on the arm.

“I don't know,” Rick's voice is hesitant, unsure. “They know we're out there.” He and those from the prison are sharing expressions laden with disquiet.

“We've been through this before,” Sasha explains quietly. “Trading people has never gone down well. I mean, look at Beth.” She throws an apologetic glance at Maggie. “And there were people before that, too.” She looks Rick straight in the eye. “You know what we gotta do.” He nods, already at the same conclusion. He looks to Carol, who has been unusually quiet. She's standing some distance from them, her gaze still lingering over the congealing pools of blood bathing the concrete. Rick knows her, knows she will still have been listening to every word.

“You agree, Carol?” Her eyes move to meet his, and he recognises the expression in them to be that of pure anger, not sorrow.

“We have to find them,” She says firmly. “We have to find them before they find us, and kill every last once of them.”

“Then that's what we'll do.” Abraham tells her stoically. “But, uh- and I don't mean to piss on the parade here, but where do we start?”

“I got an idea,” Rick tells them, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing to each of them in turn. “But it's risky.”

“When aren't our plans risky?” Asks Glenn.

* * *

The questions. The same questions over and over, each without an answer. For a while Daryl had counted the blows in his head, until eventually his legs gave way and the men restraining him were forced to support almost all of his weight. He felt the glare of his father reflected in every stroke. He had not felt so close to his childhood since Merle had died, and his past memories were clawing to overcome him. He hadn't cried though, hadn't shed a tear, because Will Dixon can't abide a crybaby. Can't. Or couldn't. For a few moments, Daryl had forgotten which was right.  
And those questions. Those _damned_ questions.

“Who is Rick?” _Crack._

“Where is your community?” _Crack._

“What supplies do you have?” _Crack._

“Who is Rick?” _Crack.  
  
_It's hours later now, and Daryl lies on his side, too exhausted to mind the stone-cold floor. He's vaguely aware that the flesh of his back is aflame, but he feels oddly numb now. He had been able to feel the blood trickling over his skin for a while afterwards, and fleetingly wondered if it came from new wounds or reopened scars. It didn't matter all that much, he supposed. The bleeding stopped, after a time.  
He thinks of Carol, wondering if he'll ever hear her call him by a stupid pet-name ever again, but it hurts to think of her right now. So he decides won't think about that, or about the feeling of Rick's brotherly hand on his shoulder. He won't think about mealtimes with all his people sat cross-legged in a circle, sometimes even managing to laugh even in the worst of times. He won't think about the affectionate smiles they throw his way, or the respect they all show him. He won't think about how they were all things he had been missing most of his life, and that he never even dreamed that they were things he would one day need to live.  
He won't think about how he can no longer live without them.  
  
Hours later still, when the key rattles in the lock once more, Daryl forces himself up. His legs are protesting vehemently, and he has to plant a hand on the wall to keep upright. He settles his glare on the cage door.

“You still ain't broken me.” He growls.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I write this, the less canon the Wolves become. There's a tag-related bit at the end, so please read responsibly.

**Chapter Two  
  
** “Okay, is everybody clear on the plan?” They're back on the road again, the newly risen sun casting a warm glow over their surroundings. It's a beautiful day, but tensions inside the car are rising. It's a smaller party this time. Rick doesn't dare leave the walls of Alexandria unguarded now, had no choice but to leave some people behind to defend the community. Glenn and Michonne ride in his car, Sasha and Abraham in another just behind them. It doesn't feel right without Daryl leading the way on his bike, but they're all trying not to draw attention to his absence and Rick doesn't want to be the one to start. He feels a rush of guilt as he remembers the look on Carol's face when he told her she would be staying behind.

“Are you crazy?” Her gaze had been hard, his own harder still. “Of course I'm coming.”

“I need you behind to keep everyone safe. The people know we've been teaching you to shoot, so you need to start teaching them. They like you. I know-” He said, raising a hand to keep her from interrupting. “I know, Daryl is more important. But we need to keep this place safe so that we have somewhere to bring him back to. You know that.” Carol still looked furious, but the tight lines of her brow had eased slightly.

“I don't know...”

“Please, Carol. Don't make me beg. If this place gets attacked, I know you'll keep it safe. Please?" And she had finally conceded, told them all to hurry up and get going, not to waste time. They'd left right after.

“Yup,” Comes Abraham's voice over the radio. “We're clear.”

“We got this.” Glenn agrees, although he looks unsure. Rick knows it took him as much persuading to keep Maggie back at Alexandria as it had taken himself to convince Carol. “Once we take a couple of their men, we'll get Daryl back.”

“We will.” Rick agrees. There is no alternative. They cannot lose another person.

They park the cars a way off as planned, and start making their way through the dense covering of trees. Abraham marching out in front, Glenn watching their backs with rifle raised. It doesn't take long to reach the lot, and it's immediately clear that the trap has been reset in the few days since their last visit.

“That's good.” Rick comments, as they reach the middle of the yard and turns towards his people. “Hopefully that means we got a while before they get back.”

“Time to get comfy.” Michonne agrees. Aaron has told them all how the trap works, and their plan is to trigger it, and capture the men who turned up to reset it. Nobody was saying it was a perfect plan. It had worked at the hospital, almost. Beth might have died, but the trade itself had been successful, and all they could do was cling to the idea that it would work this time, with no death. If they couldn't exchange the men they were about to capture, then they would have to force their location out of them, one way or another. Rick would just have to hope that these men wouldn't have Daryl's sense of loyalty. He wouldn't give up Alexandria no matter what, Rick knew.   
He turns and gives a nod to Sasha and Michonne. They head to opposite ends of the yard to take up their positions as lookout, while the others get to work. Abraham approaches the car that Daryl and Aaron had been trapped in, and uses his knife to cut his palm. He wipes the fresh blood over the handles, digs in his pocket, and withdraws a tape recorder from one of his pockets. They had recorded it earlier, with the help of Carol and Maggie. If Rick were still a praying man, he would pray that it works. Glenn is in charge of opening the back of the closest truck, and then getting away from the walkers as quickly and as quietly as possible. He assures Rick that he can do it, and follows it by asking him never to tell Maggie that he agreed to this. Abraham will then switch on the tape recording, and the walkers will be drawn to the car without the need for someone acting as live bait. This is the plan, this is the plan they will follow to get Daryl back.

The plan works, for the most part. Glenn is forced to pick off a few walkers who won't be distracted by the recorded, fabricated screams coming from the car. That's the worst of it though, and then they're all in their positions, waiting for someone to arrive.

* * *

“You still ain't broken me.” He growls. It's just the Rat this time, holding a bottle of water and a single protein bar. They give him the bare minimum to survive, to make him weak. The Rat's belt is back in place at his waist, but the sight of it still sends a shiver of fear up his spine. Daryl hates himself for that fear. The Rat looks at him for a long time; at his greasy hair and bruised face, the blood-soaked bandages, his pale skin and protruding bones.

“No,” He agrees. “We haven't.” He places the food and drink on the ground, nudging it delicately towards his captive with the toe of his boot. Then he stands there, watching Daryl with quiet interest. The gaze starts to make him uncomfortable. He looks away, and hates himself for that too.

_'Don't be a pussy.'_ he reminds himself. He's a Dixon. Not a coward.

“Ain't you gonna ask?” He spits at the tall man.

“Ask what?”

“The questions. 'Bout Rick and all.” He reaches for the water, just to give his hands something to do.

“There's no point in asking the questions.” The Rat says carelessly. He gives a soft laugh when Daryl looks up sharply, the bones in his neck cracking. “Oh no, we haven't found them. Not yet,” He says, in answer to the question Daryl had never dared to speak. “But it's only a matter of time.” He gives a sigh, as though Daryl is causing him great trouble. “I knew you'd never give the answers to those questions, moment I saw you.”

“So why'd you even ask? If you knew you weren't gonna break me, why bother?” The smile on the Rat's lips is cold and harsh. He takes a step forward.

“You're quite correct. We can't break you.” Another step. ' _Just a few more,'_ Daryl begs inside his head. ' _Come on, just a bit closer-_ '. He had to keep the man talking.

“You're damn right. I won't tell you nothin'.”

“We can't break you, Daryl. Because you're already broken.” The words take him by surprise, and for a moment it's him who's distracted. The Rat laughs again. “Oh, yes. I know a little of broken things, you see. Of lost and broken things. You might try to come across as the wild type, the one that survives against all odds. But you and I both know that you've the weakest type of man. All that's left of you are a few fragments of yourself, and you just have to hope that no one ever comes close enough to see that you've _never_ been whole.”

“You're wrong,” Daryl snarls. “You're _wrong_.” Another indifferent shrug, more soft laughter.

“Don't worry, we aren't going to kill you yet. Everyone has their... _uses_.” The Rat takes another step forward. “The last person we were able to trap was a woman, you know. And quite different to yourself at first, it must be said. She came to us whole, but there was hardly anything remaining of her by the time she left us. My men, they have their desires.” Daryl is overcome by the recollection of the girl he and Aaron had found tied to a tree, not long before it all went to shit. The blonde hair spilling over her naked body, her guts spilled. The blood running down her thighs. The rage flares up in him with no warning, his blood boiling, his fists clenched tight as he takes a vicious swing at the man before him, the man he hates with every pounding pulse of his heart. The Rat is caught off-guard, and Daryl lunges for him, pulling him closer, wrapping one of his chains around the man's throat. It takes a second for him to start fighting back, but the elbow he throws back into Daryl's abdomen is enough to wind him, enough time for the Rat to call for guards. They're upon Daryl in seconds, wrestling him face-down. He looks up at the Rat, who is still breathing heavily. For the first time, Daryl recognises anger in his expression.

“You'll regret that,” He hisses at Daryl, with venom. “The next time you and I see each other, you will _regret it._ ” The grip on him slackens, but Daryl barely has time to sit up before a fist connects with the back of his head, sending him crashing down again. He lies still, and lets the darkness creep in from the edges of his vision.

* * *

Michonne's legs are cramping underneath her, but she doesn't move a muscle. Crouched in the branches of a tree, her eyes narrow with focus as she scans the horizon. She sees the movement first, hears the distant rumble of an engine. She signals to Rick, closest to her, and motions as a silver truck draws in. Two men. Silent as a panther, Michonne climbs to the forest earth beneath her. The men seem to be laughing at the screams that ring out into the cool evening air, and the cruelty of all this suddenly hits her. They had all seen and experienced so many awful things that sometimes it took her a beat to realise when something terrible was happening to other people. She quells the anger with a deep breath, knowing that it's an emotion she doesn't have time for. Music fills the air, and some of the walkers start shambling back towards the open trucks, unaware that it's where they just escaped from. As more move away, others start to follow. The rest are picked off by the two men, and Michonne uses the cover of gunfire to move forward. She can see Rick in the corner of her eye, doing the same. ' _It's going just as we planned, it's going well_ ' she tells herself. The walkers are forever dead now, and the men have realised that there's no one in the car. She can hear one of them yelling, sees the other trying to calm him down. She looks to Rick, sees him draw his gun- but something's wrong. Now the yelling man is pointing; pointing right towards _them_. In unison, Rick and Michonne throw themselves behind the nearest trees as the man points his own gun into the trees. They're still five-on-two. They can still do this.

She and Rick turn to look each other for just a moment, and this is the time it takes for all hell to break loose right in front of them. Distracted, neither man had noticed the stray walker staggering towards them, arms outstretched. They can hear the man with the gun screaming in pain and terror as the teeth sink straight through the soft flesh of his neck. There's a gunshot as his panicked hands constrict, and the other man is running, seemingly thinking the shot had been aimed at him. Rick curses under his breath.

“Go, _go_!” He hisses through the trees, already sprinting towards their last chance of a negotiation. It's clear to Michonne that it's too late, and she tackles Rick to the side just in time as the silver truck thunders past them. The fading screams from the dying man are ringing in her ears. Abraham joins them, panting and shaking his head. Sasha vents her feelings on the walker still feeding in the middle of the yard.

“There's something out there.” Glenn squints in the direction of the trees behind them.

“A walker?” Sasha asks, fingers already closing around her knife.

“Not sure. Those two guys got distracted by something, right? I thought it was you guys, but-” Rick sees it too. He pulls his colt as he moves closer.

“My God. Is that really you?” The man steps out from between the trees. Rick knows that voice. He knows that face. Yet he can't believe that the man with this face and this voice is standing right in front of him.

“Morgan?”

* * *

Nobody ever came for him before the world ended. Not when his father taught him a lesson at the end of his belt, when he had to bite back his tears and keep himself braced. Not when one of Merle's drunken, idiot friends came creeping in his bedroom one night, and Daryl had afterwards taken to sleeping with a knife under his pillow. Not when his mother had died in the fire that swallowed their house, when the cops couldn't find his father and he'd subsequently spent the night in a children's home with thirty other neglected kids.  
No one has come now either, when he lies battered on his freezing floor. The big difference is that he knows things are different now. He and Carol are close; her touch doesn't make him uncomfortable and they always look out for each other. He values her friendship more than he can express to her. As for Rick- they're brothers. He'd said it himself. Daryl has family to come back to now, family who will come for him. If his life means anything, it's only because it means something to his people. He has to survive, if only for them.  
He waits for his head to stop spinning, counting the tiles on the ceiling just for something to do. When the world finally stills around him, he makes himself sit up, stand. He paces wall-to-wall for as long as he has the energy for, biting the skin of his thumb, looking for a way to escape and pretending he hasn't already done so a few dozen times.   
There's no window. There's not even a light, just his stone walls and cold floor and forty-two ceiling tiles. His restraints won't allow him close enough to the door to make ambush an option, and he thinks his wrists might break if he continues trying to force them through the manacles.  
  
Hours pass. Maybe a day. Maybe three; how could he know? In this time, Daryl moves from hungry and thirsty to famished and parched. He doesn't regret trying to choke the Rat, but he regrets the lack of sustenance. He wonders if they're planning on letting him starve to death, or if they think the cold will do for him first.  
When the key next rattles in the lock, his lips are dry and cracked, his aching head light with dehydration. Daryl feels a moment of hope that they have brought water, and is disgusted with himself for it. Letting them control his emotions like this is tantamount to giving in.   
It's pointless anyway, since he hasn't been brought so much as a breadcrumb.

“Where's your master?” He snarls at Left and Right, his voice a feral rasp. “Too pussy to face me now, huh? Or are you two just sick of being his lil' bitches?” He expects the blow to come, but it still doubles him over. When he looks up again, Right is eyeing him with what is undoubtedly a smirk. He grabs Daryl by the hair and yanks his head back, so hard that he wonders if his neck might snap.

“You won't be running your mouth much longer.” His voice comes as something of a surprise. From the look of the man, Daryl would have expected a deep, gruff voice. Instead, his tone is high and rings strongly of Ohio, and he has a bizarre urge to laugh. The sound of fabric tearing makes him look up, realising that Left is busy with a strip of material.

“Fuck off,” He tries to spit in Right's face, but his mouth is dry and the men only laugh. “Get the _fuck_ off me!”

“Just hold still, and this will go easy for you.” Daryl tries to reply with swing at Left, but his arms are so _heavy_. He hasn't appreciated how weak his body had become until now, and it makes him nervous. Right has the chains holding his wrists now, keeping them tight so he can't even make another attempt at a punch. His legs kick out uselessly. Left gags him with a strip of the material. He's blindfolded, and the world vanishes. He hears a noise, and guesses that he's being unchained him from the wall. He doesn't dare to hope that he's being returned back to his family. This isn't what's happening, and Daryl knows it.   
He's being dragged now, struggles to catch his own feet as they trip and stumble along a corridor. Then there's voices on all sides, hushed whispers that ebb away to silence as Daryl is brought before them. There's no room in his mind to feel ashamed for his nudity, only the swell of panic that balloons in his chest. He grunts in pain as he careers straight into a solid surface. Several people laugh. Hands are at his back now, trying to force him down, and the terrible truth of what is about to happen descends on him with sickening dread. His body's need for self-preservation kicks in, lending him strength he doesn't have. He fights, harder than he's had to fight in a long time, kicking out with restrained feet and stumbling away from the hands trying to grab at him. He doesn't know where he's going, and when someone trips him, he goes down hard. They're laughing at him again, trying to pull him back upright, and he snarls and swears and screams through his gag. His tongue's never been enough to get him out of trouble. Without seeing them, Daryl knows there are too many to fight. His foot makes contact with soft flesh and there's a grunt of pain, but still they come for him.

“Settle down!” Someone jeers, but the voice is tinged with excitement and Daryl wants to throttle the emotion from the man's throat. His belly lurches as he's pulled to his feet, endless fingers clutching at his skin. His cheek hits a rough wooden surface, his feet hit wooden legs- they're trying to force him down on a table. Even as he twists and bucks and writhes, he registers the faint smell of whiskey, as though it's seeped through the pores of wood. His legs are wrenched apart and secured, he hears the click of what might be a padlock. Faceless men are holding him down, someone is pulling at his hips, his heart thumps against the table. The blindfold slips, giving him just a hint of his peripheral vision back. He can see two bodies pressing in on him, and between them... the Rat. He gives the faintest of smiles, watching closely from a chair in the corner.   
' _We were both_ wrong.' he thinks. The Rat had thought him already broken, which he wasn't. Daryl had thought they wouldn't break him, which they would.   
This is what will break him.  
  
Daryl closes his eyes. He doesn't know if he gives voice to the howling in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope it was okay!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three  
  
** Trapped under the canopy of jewel-bright stars, the night air is dense with silence. From his place on the porch, Judith in his arms, Rick might almost feel peaceful- if not for the constant anxiety gnawing at him. He can't forget, even for a second.  
Sophia, Andrea, Beth. Someone in their group always seemed to be lost, and they never seemed to come home again. Somehow, in their endless searches, almost six weeks have passed already. Rick knows what Shane would tell him; he can see the dead man in his mind's eye shaking his head exasperatedly.

“It's been a month, man. I tell you, we're lookin' for a body.” But Rick can't believe it. This isn't just anyone they're talking about, it's _Daryl_. He survives. Time and time again, when the odds are inconceivably stacked against him, he survives. It's what he's been doing his whole life.

“Dad?” Rick turns, sees Carl standing at the door. “You alright?”

“I'm fine, Carl. Are you?” His son nods, reaching out to take Judith.

“I'm good. Did you find anything?”

“No,” Rick sighs. “Not a thing.” Morgan had told them all he knew of the Wolves, of the men who had attacked him in the woods. All this time, Rick's expected some attempt at contact on their part, but the group are suspiciously quiet. The walker trap is seemingly abandoned. They have found no bodies strung to trees like the one Aaron had described, the girl they found the day Daryl was captured. Rick wonders if the Wolves are searching for Alexandria, and if Daryl has purposefully mislead them. He hopes they will think their prisoner useful enough to keep him alive for now. Rick just needs more time. They all need more time.  
Carl takes a few moments before replying.

“Don't worry, you'll find him. Or he'll find us. You know Daryl, he's tough. Tougher than most people.” Carl sounds so confident, and Rick appreciates it more than he can say. He reaches out to ruffle his son's hair, gives his shoulder a squeeze.

“I know. You're right.” Carl looks up at him, and Rick sees Lori in the boy's face.

“You should go, dad. You'll be late for the meeting.”

* * *

While the rest of the group frays a little more with each passing day, Carol's determination only grows stronger. She makes them casseroles and insists they all eat them, comes up with new ideas and plans search grids, keeps them from swaying towards the belief that Daryl can be anything less than alive. She's cooked up some kind of corned beef and potato concoction today, and the dish is steaming gently on the coffee table. The group sits in little huddles around it; Glenn and Maggie curled up together on the couch, Tara propped up in the armchair with Rosita sitting on the arm. Morgan cross-legged in the corner, looking ponderous. The times when they're all together like this always seem to highlight their missing the most.

“Anyone find anything?” Rick asks, as he does every day. His people shake their heads, like they do everyday.

“I might have an idea.” Everyone looks up from their plates, staring at Eugene.

“Well?” Rosita prompts. “What is it?”

“It's occurred to me that what would really put the swing in this situation is overhead footage, so I'd been pondering on that for a while when a thought came to me. It might not be more than a shootin' star's chance in hell, but-”

“Eugene, I don't mean to be crass,” Abraham interrupts. “But if you could just get to the fuckin' point, that'd be swell.” Carol moves closer to Eugene, standing over him.

“Just tell us what you need, and we'll get it.”

“Fine, fine. I'm gonna need a good quality camera that can record live video, a signal-boosting antennae, some kind of aerial RC vehicle...” Eugene says thoughtfully. “I'll write you a list.” They all exchange looks.

“You want to build a drone?” Glenn asks, his eyebrows raised.

“Something resembling one, yes. Now I appreciate that the pieces are gonna be hard to come by, but-”

“It's a shot.” Rick finishes for him. “Good work, Eugene. Anyone up for going on a run, trying to find an electrical store?”

“I'll go.” Michonne says at once.

“And me,” Rosita agrees. “Me and Abraham.”

“Me too. I think Maggie should stay here though, stay with Deanna.” He turns to his wife. “She needs you.”

“I should stay too,” Carol concedes, but the prospect seems to bring her no joy. “I can keep training people to shoot, and try and convince more of them to join the search party for Daryl.”

“Have you had any luck with that?” Tara asks. She's recovering from her head injury now, but she still looks pale and wan. Carol grimaces.

“Some, not much. Aaron's trying to convince everyone to support us, but,” She sighs heavily. “Daryl didn't exactly enamour himself to these people. With Deanna still grieving, and the rest of us out combing the woods, they don't know where to turn. The dangers outside the gates are finally starting to dawn on them, and they're scared.”

“At least they get to see what you do for your people.” Morgan's voice is low, but he speaks with calming reassurance. “They see you out there every damn day come hell or high water, searching for your man. They know you look after your own, and that'll mean something to 'em.” Rick nods gratefully, but finds no words to reply.

* * *

All five of the group travelling further into the capital knows they are taking a big risk, but none of them mention it. They instead discuss tactics, locations of various stores, even a meetup point if things go south.

“Obviously we should try the ones towards the edge of the city first.” Glenn tells them, running his fingers over a map of DC. “Somewhere as big and densely populated as this is bound to be overrun by now, and it'll give us a better chance of getting out if there's a problem."

“Definitely.” Agrees Rick. “We'll have to go careful, as quiet as possible.”

“You think we should split up?” Abraham asks over the radio. “That way, we can hit a few places at once and still be home in time for happy hour.” Rick mulls it over, but shakes his head.

“No, we stick together.” He says decisively. “We need to have each other's backs, and we don't know what other threats might be out there besides the walkers.”

“Yeah, you're right.” Abraham concedes. “Maybe we'll get lucky and find a few wolves to hunt.”

* * *

“I'll take point.” Michonne steps to the front of the group as they walk away from the cars, katana already in hand.

“Alright.” Nods Rick. “Abraham, you take the back. Everyone, keep your eyes open.” They had decided to leave the cars a little ways outside the city and approach it on foot. That way, they might just be able to slip in and out, unseen and unheard. They meet a few walkers on their way, and each one is silently dispatched.  
Things start to get hairier the further through the streets they walk. They're forced to turn back and try another route several times, each member of the group trying to tread as lightly as possible.

“There,” Rosita whispers as they turn another corner. “You see it?” Rick does, they all do. Right across from them sits the store they're looking for. Its windows are shattered, and dead spill onto the streets.

“That'd be a bitch to get through.” Abraham murmurs behind Rick.

“What do you want to do?” Michonne asks him, with a light touch on his arm.

“I'm not sure.” Rick admits, gaze still fixed on the store front. “We might be able to distract them for a while, but they'd be able to get right at us through those windows. There's too many to take on, and we might not get enough time to get what we need.” He sighs, a hand reaching up to rub at his jaw. “On the other hand, we don't know how many walkers are between here and the next place.” Glenn consults his map.

“Six blocks away. You wanna try for that one?”

“That's not far. We could go scope it out, see what it's like.” Michonne looks at the walkers ahead of them. “Either way, we need to move before _they_ see us, and the decision's made for us.”

“Let's go for the other one, see what we can see.” Rick hopes he's making the right choice.  
  
It's such a relief to see the next store that his legs go momentarily weak. The street's relatively clear, and the store has metal shutters which can be pulled across once they're inside.

“Alright, here's what we do.” Rick turns to his people. “Glenn, you keep watch at the door. Whistle if you see anything, and we'll come running. Rosita, Abraham, you take the left side of the store. Stick together until you're _sure_ it's safe. Me and Michonne will take the right.” There's a shift around him as everyone prepares themselves for a fight. “Everyone got their maps? Good. Let's do this.”

* * *

His mind is a void. A great black hole. Right now, it's over, and his body lies in ruin.  
He doesn't know when it will stop being over.  
If he could keep his body still, he knows it would be over sooner. There's no fun to be had in someone who doesn't fight back, and yet he can't seem to stop himself. When the hands start to touch him, his mind seems to shrink, and he becomes overwhelmed with emotions he can't even name. The only way he can express those feelings seems to be with violence, and he pays for it every single time.  
Then it's over again, and his mind is a black hole.  
  
He wishes for a clean death. He wishes he had taken Beth's bullet in her stead, so that she could live and his death was quick and painless. Of all the fucked-up ways to kick the bucket in this fucked-up world, Daryl would choose just about anything else over this. Lying here, day after day, wasting muscle and bleeding wounds, only his mind and the hands to keep him company. He will surely go insane, if he doesn't wind up strung to a tree first. Daryl hates the idea of one of his family finding him like that, bare and broken. He hates it. But sometimes, in the darkest moments, he wishes for it. It's another thing to add to his list of self-loathing.  
He used to be sure that someone was coming for him. That was before. Now, it's easier to think that they won't. Not because he believes Rick has given up on finding him, but because Daryl doesn't feel as though there's enough of him to find anymore. 

“Stop being such a pussy.” Says the shadow in his head that speaks with Merle's voice. “You ain't dead yet, so quit your bitchin'.”

“Shut up,” Daryl mutters, his own voice cracked with ill-use. “You don't know shit.”

“Nuh-uh. I know you, baby brother.” The voice chuckles. “Always knew you were a pillow-biter.” Daryl swings a wild punch, but there's no one to fight- and anyway, it's not Merle's voice he can hear, it's Carol's.

“You want a cookie, Pookie?” She asks in that silly, high-pitched tone she adopts around the Alexandrians. He reaches out for one, and the motion turns her to dust.

Then it's Rick's voice he hears, and they're sitting in front of a car surrounded by bodies, and Rick's telling Daryl that they're brothers. He wants them to get in the car and drive far, far away, but the ground has cracked open and swallows them both, and Daryl's falling, falling...

Left is there, shaking him awake. The blindfold comes again.

* * *

Finally, it seems some luck has come their way. They find everything on Eugene's list, plus a few batteries Rosita discovers hidden under a display stand.

“Good job, everyone. Now we just gotta get back and let Eugene-” Rick's words fall away as the sound of an approaching engine echoes around the street outside. “Get down!” They move quickly away from the door, hiding behind shelving units and taking covert looks through the metal grates of the shutters. A car has pulled up a few stores down, and four men get out. They're quick to take down the walkers drawn to the noise, but don't seem to be troubling with keeping quiet.

“Those idiots are gonna draw every walker in a five mile radius down on us.” Glenn whispers, but Rick hardly hears him. He's staring hard at each of the men in turn, trying to get a good look at each.

“What's that on their foreheads? Is that the symbol Morgan told us about?” They all look at each other. Could it possibly be that, after all their weeks of searching, four members of the Wolves just happened to stumble upon them? The men certainly didn't seem to know they were there. The biggest of them seems to be directing them in different places. Rick's heart sinks when he points towards the electrical store. He motions to the others, and they move further back into the store. They wait, collectively holding their breath, as the shutters are pulled open, and the man enters the store. Rick attracts Abraham's attention, and gives a signal. They each start to creep around the edges of the shelving, waiting as the man slowly ambles through the store, closer and closer to the others. Just as he seems to catch a glimpse of Rosita, Rick lunges, clamping a hand over the man's mouth. Abraham places the edge of his knife against quivering throat, and a few tiny beads of blood bubble at its touch.

“Make a sound and you'll be dead faster than you can shit your pants.” He growls. “Understand?” Slowly, the man nods, and Rick takes his hand away.

“We haven't got long. So you'll tell us- where is your base? Where do you keep prisoners?” There's confusion on the man's face, and then a sudden understanding seems to dawn on him. His eyes are wide, and Rick realises that he can't be more than nineteen, twenty at most. Tall, gangly, and with a W marked on his forehead- but still basically a kid.

“I- I don't know.” Abraham presses the knife in deeper, and a terrified squeak escapes the kid's lips.

“You do know. I saw it in your face just now. You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about. Tell us, or you're dead.” Rick takes the knife from Abraham. Young or not, the refusal to speak fills him with an unexpected anger.

“I can't! If they find out I told you, I-” Rick digs the blade in so tight that blood starts to run down his prisoner's neck.

“Tell me. Tell me _now_.” The kid is shaking under his grasp.

“It's west, it's west from here. I don't know how far exactly, I never really pay that much attention-” He cowers as Rick makes a ferocious sound in his throat. “I swear, I _swear_! I can't drive, I just lay in the back and- it's about three hours drive from here, I think. Three hours west.” Rick nods. This, at least, narrows their search area.

“How many people are there?” Michonne asks, eyes narrowed.

“Uh- twenty, maybe thirty. I'm new, I only just got there a week ago and I-” Rick lets the boy go.

“Thank you for your honesty.” He says softly. The kid's expression melts in relief, turning to sudden shock as the knife cuts renders his throat wide open. Blood gushes from the wound.

* * *

“You think that was wrong?” He asks Michonne on the walk back to the car. They'd been lucky to escape the store without capture, but Glenn had discovered a window in the staff break room which lead into an alleyway leading away from the other Wolves, and they'd been able to slip out of it just in time. They'd had to run fast to ensure they weren't followed, and they were all out of breath as they finally got out of the city. Michonne walks beside him, but she's unusually quiet, and Rick can't help but wonder if she disapproves of his killing the boy. “Look, I know he was young, but-”

“It's not that.” She assures him, returning his gaze for the first time. “You had to kill him. I hate that you had to, but you did. And anyway, he was part of the group that shot and captured Daryl for no reason- he gets no sympathy from me.” Michonne gives a deep sigh. “I'm just worried that we won't get there in time.” Rick nods, understanding. He worries too, but he can't afford to let it show right now.

“I truly believe that we will bring Daryl home. He's been there with me since the beginning, and he's going to be with us right until the end. We'll get all this stuff back to Alexandria, Eugene will build his drone, and we'll find him. We have to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if corn beef hash is a thing in the US, but it was one of my favourites as a child. Hope the chapter is okay!


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

“Why stay so loyal, Daryl?” Asks the Rat, as he sets a bottle of water and an open can of soup down. “Why try so hard to protect people who don't even care about you?” Daryl pushes himself to his knees. They don't even bother keeping him chained to the wall now, leaving only the cuffs on his wrists as a means to restrain him. He's too weak to fight back, his mind too fractured and his body littered with injuries. He snatches up the water and drinks half in one go, and turns his back on the Rat. It's as much of a rebellion as he can manage right now, and even that small movement seems to steal what little strength he has left. The Rat only gives a soft chuckle. “No one's coming, are they? You keep their secrets for them, no matter how we try to... _persuade_ you,” He continues delicately. “And yet, no one seems to have put together a rescue party. I'll wager your people aren't even looking. They were probably glad to be rid of you.”

“Bullshit.” Daryl tries to force anger with the word, but his voice sounds tired and croaky.

“They probably all sighed with relief when they heard we'd put a couple of bullets in you,” The Rat goes on, as if he hasn't said anything. “Maybe they even celebrated.”

“Why don't you just kill me?” The question takes even Daryl by surprise. He hadn't thought about it, the words had just tumbled from his lips. The Rat raises his eyebrows, and his expression becomes thoughtful.

“I won't lie; it was all about your community at first. The supplies they have will be very useful, once we track them down. It's a big city, but we'll find them eventually. We have other pursuits, however, which require our more immediate attention.” Daryl doesn't have the energy to wonder what those 'pursuits' might be; he can hardly concentrate on the Rat's words. “And then it became more of a- let's call it an idle curiosity. I was a psychiatrist in the old world, you know.” Daryl gives a small snort of derision, which the Rat ignores. “I know how fragile most minds are. In this world, to stay at the top of the food chain you have to be strong. Both of body and, perhaps more importantly, of mind. You are strong, Daryl. I won't deny it. But there's also a weakness about you that I found intriguing from the very start. Life has become very tedious, and seeing how far I can push you, how far I can go until you surrender and give the answers to my questions- it's been most entertaining. For the men, too.” The Rat leans in closer. “I think we're getting close. You could end it all right now, you know. Just tell me one little secret, one burden off your shoulders, and I can stop trying to persuade you.”

“Fuck you.” Daryl spits in the Rat's face.   
Left and Right are called in, and the Rat whips him bloody.  
  
He doesn't really remember when he stopped fighting when they come with the blindfold, just that he can't seem to find it in himself any more. When it's over, Daryl always hates himself a little more for not giving anything back, but it's like his mind has started shutting a part of itself down whenever it's happening. He can still smell the faint trace of whiskey, he feels the touch of unknown people, but a balloon swells in his brain and all logical thought is lost.   
At some point, he was given a blanket for his cage. Using it feels somehow transactional, as though the thin scrap of fabric is payment for his suffering. He uses it anyway, because the floor is so cold that he's always shivering. He probably even shivers in his sleep.  
Occasionally, he thinks he can hear muffled screaming through the walls, but it always seems to fade quickly, and he isn't sure it's even real. His nightmares and waking moments have become irrevocably intertwined. Sometimes, he is dreaming of his childhood, but the image of his father morphs and distorts until it becomes the Rat, who taunts him with Merle's voice. Once, it was Rick's voice that spoke from the Rat's thin lips.

Daryl doesn't remember when he stopped fighting.

* * *

Rick is fighting a losing battle with his feelings of guilt. Ten weeks gone by, and they were still looking for Daryl. What kind of leader was he, to let his group down so badly? They are all feeling the strain, that much is clear. They haven't been able to do much while Eugene builds and tests his invention, and Rick knows his restlessness is putting the rest of them on edge too. Even Carol seems to be beginning to lose hope. The general consensus around Alexandria is that Daryl's dead, that he probably died a long time ago and Rick and his group would be better off spending their time trying to benefit the community. The uncertainty hangs over him, dark and heavy as a storm cloud. He doesn't want them to grieve for a man who might still be alive, but he also doesn't want them run into the ground if the result is another grave to dig.

“We know where to look now,” Rick keeps telling everyone. “Three hours west of the capital, that kid said. Now Eugene has his helicopter in the air, we'll be able to find out where the Wolves are hiding.” The replies he receives have grown gradually less earnest.   
He heads back to the house, wanting to drop in on Eugene to check for news before dinner. He'd promised Carl that they and Judith could sit down together, and he's determined to spend a couple of hours talking with his son about regular, mundane things. He heads upstairs to the room Eugene has commandeered for his work. The man himself sits in front of a television screen, watching with his brow furrowed.

“Rick, your timing could not have been more fortuitous. Take a gander at this.” He gestures at the image, a remote control clutched in one hand. Rick joins him in squinting at the screen.

“Can you get any closer?” Eugene shakes his head.

“Not without risk of detection.”

“And it's roughly three hours drive away?”

“It's hard to exactly guess the mileage without knowing the speed of the car- but yes, I suppose that would be a fair estimate, give or take a few.” It surprises Rick to hear Eugene talking so frankly, and he knows it's because this task is being taken very seriously.

“This is good work Eugene. Real good. It's the right sort of size. Do you think you could take a sketch of the outline of the buildings? It'd really help me out.”

“It's already in the pipeline. I'll keep looking over the area too, in case there are more buildings worth taking a peep at.” Rick claps Eugene on the shoulder, smiling for the first time in a long while.

“Thank you. Thank you for all you're doing. We'll get started checking them out in the morning.”

* * *

Rick is awake long before dawn, the familiar feeling of spiders wriggling in his belly reminding him of the task that faces them today. Before the day is through, he hopes to know- one way or the other. He lies in bed, tossing, turning, thinking, until he can stand it no longer.  
He's washed, dressed and forcing down breakfast by the time Michonne appears, still a little sleep-tousled.

“Morning.”

“Mornin'.”

“Sleep well?” She asks, padding across the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water. Rick only shrugs in response. “Yeah, me too.”

“I'm just worried that-” He struggles to finish the sentence.

“That Daryl won't be there. I know, Rick. We're all worried about that. It would be awful if we can't find-”

“It's not just that,” He interrupts, filled with a sudden need to confess his worries. After all the weeks of staying strong under the burden of constant fear, guilt and worry, he can't stop the words tumbling from him. It's as though his overwrought emotions are a river bursting its banks. “It's the danger I'm putting everyone else in. Thirty men, Michonne. _Thirty_. Even with all of us going, we're heavily outnumbered. What if I lead us straight to danger and Daryl's not even there? What if I get us killed for nothing?”His voice rises as he lays all his fears bare to Michonne. “What are the odds he's even still alive? After we've found the place and staked it out a while, it'll have been almost three months since he was captured. _And_ he'd already been shot. The Wolves haven't come knockin' on our door, so we know he hasn't told them where we are. They'd have realised pretty quickly that he'd never betray his family- so what possible reason would they have for keeping him alive after all this time?”

“Rick-” He can't stop now he's started, can't let Michonne break his stride. If she's shocked at his outburst, she's hiding it well.

“But how can we _not_ go? He's part of our family. He's my _brother._ He'd be out there searching for me this very minute if it was me that was captured.” Rick gives a helpless gesture. “I just don't know what to do.” Michonne crosses to him, puts her arms around his shoulders.

“Hey,” She says softly. “It's going to be okay, Rick. Of _course_ we're going. That's not even up for debate, so why're you even worrying about it? What do you think Carol would say, if you tell her that we're not even gonna go look? We both know how that would go down. And it's not like we're planning on marching straight through the Wolves' compound, are we? We'll be careful, so we'll be fine. If we find Daryl, it will all have been worth it.”

“And if we don't?” Michonne takes a deep breath.

“Then we'll mourn him, like we have so many other people. I know,” She raises her hands in a placating gesture as Rick shoots her a hard glance. “I know, it would be a huge loss. For all of us. But we'll take out the people responsible for taking Daryl either way, and we'll keep trying to have a good life here. But you can't lose hope yet, Rick. For all we know, he's out there right now, living off squirrels and possums.” A sound rises from Rick's throat, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. 

* * *

“I watched them right up until it went dark last night.” Eugene informs them, handing rough sketches of a building to each of them. “And again this mornin', the minute it got light enough.”

“Is it them?” Maggie asks, frowning at the paper in her hands.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that, owing to the height restrictions. I couldn't get too close, or they'd have seen the drone.” Eugene runs a hand through his hair. “Already had to play a little fast and loose on the risk scale to get a better idea of what's goin' on down there.”

“And?” Rick stands at the edge of the room, his group gathered around him. Eugene waves his own copy of the blueprints.

“Well, for one thing I can tell you that these people do not take their security at all seriously enough- which is a good thing for us, of course. There aren't enough guards, I spied minimal ammunitions, and they can't possibly have eyes on all areas at all times. See this building right here?” He points to a rectangle at the bottom of his drawing. “It's lightly guarded, far as I can see. There might be a window on the eastern side, but it was hard to be certain. If you can get in there, and move quietly between the buildings, it might be your best chance of slipping in unseen.”

“No.” Says Carol sharply. She's been silent and pensive all morning, and everyone turns to look at her. Her own gaze doesn't stray from Rick's. “I think I have a better idea.”

* * *

From his place at the table, Daryl listens happily as his father and brother joke around in the room next door. It's unusual for them to not be at each other's throats. Hearing them laugh makes his belly feel warm, loosening the anxious knots that usually rest there.   
In the kitchen, their mother wears her best cornflower-blue dress and dances around to her own tune. She's cooking venison pie, and calls Daryl pet names like sweetpea and sugar plum.  
She's a good cook when she's sober, and the smell of the baking pastry makes his mouth water. It was his kill that was feeding them tonight. He'd brought the buck down with a single shot, and his pa had said he was 'real proud'. The praise still makes him swell with joy. His mother smiles at him now, gently brushing back the hair framing his face.

“Honey, would you get the door for me?” Daryl is confused. There isn't anyone at the door, is there?

“What do you mean, mama?” He blinks, rubbing his eyes with his fists. It almost seems like the picture of his mother is fading away. Daryl reaches out for her, desperate not to lose his mother to the dust.

“Get the door, Daryl.” She repeats, her voice now urgent. “Get the door!”  
  
He wakes with a start, and groans as a pain spasms down his side. It's been a while since the pain has felt so relevant to him. For a long time, his entire body had felt oddly numb, and Daryl realises that this is the clearest his head has been in weeks- possibly months. It was as though a shroud has lifted, and he can think again. He forces himself to sit up, looking around as though seeing his surroundings again for the first time. They only bother chaining his wrists now, and he's just starting to appreciate the feeling of being able to move more freely. He stretches his legs and rotates his bruised and bloody ankles, trying to get the circulation going again. He reaches for the bottled water, and vaguely remembers Right bringing it to him. Daryl hadn't had the strength to sit up and drink, and he'd fallen asleep right after. He remembers the click of the key in the lock, and the way he'd felt the cold dread of anticipation, the footsteps and the half-hearted kick flinched away from. Then the scraping noise the door made as it shut, and- Daryl chokes on the water. His dream comes back to him, and with it his mother in the cornflower-blue dress.

“ _Get the door._ ”   
Is his memory misleading him? Daryl climbs laboriously to his feet. It's been a while since his legs have had to support his weight, and he sways on the spot as he tries to find his balance. He leans heavily on the wall, stumbling towards the door, not daring to hope. He doesn't think about how he will get out, or where he will go. This is is chance, his _only_ chance to find the Rat and kill him. It doesn't matter that he won't get out alive. This is the best hope of ending it all.

Daryl reaches out to the handle with trembling fingers.   
It opens.

* * *

The moon is bright. The gentle beams bathe the grey walls of the once-abandoned building, giving them an odd, silvery glow. Carol hopes it won't make them too noticeable.   
Ideally, they would wait for a darker night, but they've already had to spend a few days scoping out the camp and gathering all the information possible. They'd had to monitor the activity of the guards, see which would be diligent in the duties, and which could be trusted to fall asleep at their posts.  
Eugene had been right in thinking the southern building to be the least guarded. They notice the diligent guards walk the long way to loop round it every hour, and the lazy ones ignore it entirely. Carol thinks that either they're stupid, or they're arrogant enough to believe that no one would ever try to attack them. Either way, it amounts to the same thing. Best of all, the Wolves seem to own just a couple of guns between them.  
She drops to the ground, and pulls herself underneath one of the two weak sections of fencing they've identified, with Glenn following in her wake. For this part of the plan, it's just the two of them. Carol can practically feel Maggie's anxious gaze on their backs as they creep through the silent night, watching from back in the trees where she and the others have taken cover.

“Looks clear,” Glenn whispers as they reach the window Eugene spotted. He glances back towards Maggie. “It'll be tight, but I think we'll just about squeeze through there.”

“Thank god it's open. Give me a boost, would you?” She peers in, cupping her hands against the glass to see better. It's dark, but she sees no sign of movement.

“Looks empty.” Carol pulls the window open as far as it will go, and hoists herself through it. There's no time for fear.   
She drops lightly to the ground, glancing hurriedly at the dark corners. There's a soft thump as Glenn lands behind her.

“This is perfect. All this stuff- it's exactly what we need.” He's right. Surrounding them are shelves of supplies. Blankets, spare clothes, rolls of bandages; all things that will make their plan go all the smoother. Carol's eyes run over the piles of various clothing. Her heart lurches.  
She rushes forward and snatches up a leather vest, holding it up to the moonlight to see it properly. She already knows it's his. Would know it a mile off.

“This is the place.” She murmurs. “If he's-” She swallows hard. “He'll be here, Glenn.” She folds the vest neatly, and tucks it in her pack. “Let's go.” They tread through the rest of the building, every sense heightened, expecting people to appear at any moment. It appears to be unmanned however, and Carol guesses that it's because the Wolves have little regard for these supplies. Glenn sets down his own backpack, and starts to rummage through it.

“Building's empty. We should get started.”

* * *

Daryl's heart is thumping so loud in his head that he has to strain his ears. He hears the echo of a door slamming far away. The sound of water dripping from a leaking pipe, and slow, heavy breathing that is not his own. He edges out of the door, eyes screwed up against the light from a flickering bulb.   
The sound he can hear is Right, sitting on a stool and leaning against the wall behind him. He's asleep, and snoring gently.   
Daryl looks at the man, and a burning hatred engulfs a little of the fear. This is a man who spent weeks torturing him, bruising his skin and splitting him apart- and yet, he sleeps soundly. Something seems to rise in him, the rush of lava right before a volcano erupts. Daryl pounces on the man, pulling him sideways from the stool and wrapping his chains around his throat. He had tried to do the same to the Rat, what felt like an eternity ago. He wasn't going to fail this time.   
Right awakens with a start, eyes widening as he absorbs Daryl's wild appearance. The realisation dawns on his face, already starting to turn purple. Choking sounds emerge from Right's throat, and Daryl only pulls tighter on the chains.   
It seems to take an age for the man to die, and Daryl doesn't let go until he's sure he's squeezed the last vestiges of life from his body. It takes him a few more minutes to drag the corpse inside the cage. He takes the clothes, the boots, and the knife he finds concealed in one of them. He loses his balance trying to put them on, and every part of him is shaking from the exertion. The warm clothes feel odd on his skin, but Daryl feels better for wearing them.   
He pauses once more at the door to what used to be his cage. He's never even seen any other part of the camp, but he knows which way to turn. The room with the table is to the left, and Daryl doesn't ever want to see that room. He shuts the door behind him, and turns right.

* * *

It starts as a warm glow in the window. The orange, flickering light dances through the pane of glass, and soon the roof is consumed.

“C'mon,” Rick growls under his breath. “Someone has to notice soon.” He hears a shout, and his heart sinks with relief as men begin to spill out of doors, staring aghast at the flames now leaping in the sky above. They seem to be at a loss for ideas on putting the fire out. “Alright, there's enough of 'em out here. Let's go.” He gives a signal to Abraham, Rosita and Sasha, suspended in the trees above them and completely camouflaged by leaves. Then it's time.   
He leads Michonne and Aaron around the chain-link fencing, all three keeping low and trusting to the fire to distract The Wolves. Rick had asked Morgan to come too, but his friend had refused, and there wasn't time to try and persuade him.   
Rick leading the way, they creep along to the outer perimeter of the fence, where Glenn and Carol wait for them. He flashes his torch once back towards the trees, and it begins.   
Bullets rain down, and at least a dozen Wolves fall as the cascade of metal tears through flesh and bone. The still night air shatters with the sound of men screaming and calling out to one another. They are in disarray, and while chaos reigns, Rick leads his small group to the main building.   
When they find a door, Rick enters first with gun trained at eye level. The fire seems to have pulled most of the Wolves away, where they hope enough will be gunned down to allow unhindered access for Rick and his people. They meet a few along the way, nothing they can't handle. They've been moving fast and quietly for ten minutes before anyone speaks.

“Rick,” Glenn breathes in his ear. “Look.” Rick follows his gaze to the room just ahead, and for a moment he doesn't understand what's made Glenn look so upset, or why Carol's turned ashen. It's just a room with an old table in it. Then he turns to look properly, and takes in the metal chains coiling the legs at one end of the table. An anxious, nauseous dread settles on his gut as he follows the splattered droplets of dried blood with his eyes. Rick doesn't want to know what happens in this room.

“C'mon.” He murmurs to the others, turning his back on the table. Without another word, they start following the dark trail.

* * *

Something is going on. Daryl can hear men shouting, running footsteps in the distance. Once, he only narrowly escapes detection by hurling himself through the door to an empty room, easing it shut as several pairs of feet thunder past. Do they already know he's gone? It seems like a lot of people for one missing man.   
Daryl waits until it's quiet once more, before he leaves the room. His breathing is already ragged, sweat plasters his hair to his forehead, his legs feel empty and leaden at the same time. Everything hurts but he forces himself onward step by step. He thinks about Rick and Carol and all the other people he loves, and pushes to move faster. 

* * *

The blood leads them right to the back of the building, to a corridor and several windowless rooms. A single door is closed, the one farthest from them, with an upturned stool resting outside. Rick's heart is beating a violent rhythm against his ribs, and he forces himself to take a deep breath that makes his chest hurt. If Daryl is anywhere, it's in that room.   
Michonne reaches the door first. Rick gives her a nod, and she tries the handle. It opens, but they have just a momentary view of the bare walls before a walker lurches out of the dark towards them. Rick doesn't have time to think, only to raise his knife and plunge it deep within the walker's temple. It drops, face down. The group stare at it.

“Was it...?” Maggie asks, voice tight with anxiety.

“I don't know.” Rick whispers, suddenly terrified as his gaze lingers on the corpse's dark, straggly hair. Carol looks as though she might faint. It's Glenn who steps forward, and gently turns the body.

“It's not him. It isn't him.” He says quietly. Rick doesn't know if that should make him happy. He squats beside Glenn, inspecting the body for himself.

“Hasn't rotted any yet. He hasn't been dead long.” He looks closer at the marks circling the walker's throat. “Strangled, by the looks of it.” The room smells terrible. The distinct, coppery stench of blood, intertwined with that of other bodily fluids over a long period of time. Rick doesn't think he can stomach it much longer.   
Carol slides down the wall outside, and Rick isn't sure if she's about to collapse or start howling with grief. He knows what she's thinking. If Daryl isn't here, it must mean-

“We need to go.” Maggie says firmly, offering a hand to help Carol up. “There's plenty other places we've not even looked yet. Come on now, we need to keep movin'.”

* * *

There's a window in the next room Daryl looks in, but it's too small for him to climb through. It's becoming harder to think straight, he has to focus all of his remaining consciousness on staggering mechanically onwards. He doesn't allow his body an inch of the respite it begs for. Daryl isn't even completely sure where he's trying to get to anymore, but he knows he must keep going. As he rounds another corridor, his numb brain seems to jolt, and he hears the faint footsteps coming up behind him. Daryl sags momentarily against the wall, fighting exhaustion and fever for control over his body. His fist clenches tightly round the knife. This is a good a place to die as any. When the first man turns the corner, he plunges the blade downwards.

* * *

Rick hardly sees the glint of metal; reflex alone saves him. In one swift movement, he knocks the knife from the attacker's hand and pushes him roughly against the wall. The pair struggle for a moment.

“Rick!” Carol's grip is tight on his arm, and he looks at her questioningly, then back at the man. The stranger throws his head back. And it's not a stranger at all.

“Daryl?”

* * *

“ _Weaklin',_ ” The voice of his father whispers in his ear. “ _Useless._ ” After all this, after all he'd been through, and Daryl hadn't even been able to kill the man now pushing him up against a wall. He can't go back, but he's too weak for his struggling to be of any real use. He can't go back. People are saying words he doesn't understand and he knows they're going to take him back again. _He can't go back._

“Daryl? It's us. Daryl, look at me.” No, he _won't._ He throws his weight sideways, and wrenches an arm free. His movements are groggy and obvious, but no one tries to stop him as he swings a punch at the face in front of his. It connects. There's a grunt of pain, and the grip on him slackens.

“It's _us_ , brother.” The voice is calm, and that word- it feels as though a tiny flame is trying to find its way through the fog in his brain. “It's Rick, and Carol. And Glenn, Maggie, Michonne, Aaron. Your family. Look at me, now. Be still.” Daryl lets his arm fall. He and Rick make eye contact, and Rick lets him go. He looks slowly around at the other faces. His family. Real? Or ghost?

Daryl sways for a moment, and the ground rushes up to swallow him. Darkness comes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I know there was a lot of back and forth in this chapter, so I hope it reads okay.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five  
  
** Abraham drops from the tree, several twigs snapping under his weight. He stretches and gives a satisfied smile at the encampment before him.

“That's some fine work, if I do say so myself.” He says to no one in particular. Most of The Wolves lie dead or dying, and those still living are now having to battle their newly reanimated comrades. They're losing. Abraham looks across the yard, where a slightly battered silver van sits perfectly unattended. He tilts his head to one side, then nods to himself.

“Where are you going?” Rosita calls down, still perched in a branch over his head.

“You'll see. Get the cars, would ya ladies?”

* * *

Rick catches Daryl before he hits the floor. His ears are ringing. He can only think to get them all safely back out, and then he can let himself feel joy.

“Glenn,” He croaks, and the young man rushes forward to help carry Daryl's limp body. Carol is at his side, stroking the pale skin of his arm with her thumb.

“Which way?” Michonne asks.

“Back the way we came. Be ready to kill on sight.”  
  
They move as fast as they can, past the row of windowless rooms, past the wooden table. With the door leading to their exit finally ahead of them, Rick lowers Daryl to the ground.

“We'll go out, check it's clear first. Carol, Michonne, Aaron, you're with me.” He looks to Glenn and Maggie. “You two stay here and keep him safe. We'll come back when we know we're good to go. The others should be at the cars by now, so all we gotta do is get the gate open and we're good to go.” Rick shoulders the door open, and they're back out in the cool night air. It's a little quieter now. The stone walls of the storage shed are still intact, but the roof has been burned away, and smoke plumes rise from the flames that still lick the interior of the building. One or two walkers are ambling around, feasting on the recently dead.  
Just as everything feels under control, the rumbling of an engine cuts through the muted sounds of the dying. Rick throws himself aside as a silver van bursts right through the camp gates, taking down a large portion of fence with it. He's ready for a fight as the van rolls to a stop in the space he'd just vacated, but it's only Abraham who steps down from the driver's seat. He shrugs in response to Rick's raised eyebrow.

“Saw it just sittin' there. Fancied taking a spin.” Behind him, the two cars they'd brought with them roll through the destroyed gates.

“Daryl?” Sasha asks before she's even parked the car.

“Alive. We got him.” Rick can't help himself; the corners of his mouth twitch irresistibly into a smile. Sasha gives a strangled cry of relief and rushes forward to hug him, then Michonne. Rosita sighs audibly, and Abraham's smile is broad. “He's in a bad way though.”

“We'll fix him up.” Aaron says at once. “All of us, we'll have him back to his usual self in no time.”

“Of course we will.” Michonne agrees. Rick steps over to Carol, apparently speechless, tears streaming down her face. He knows how she feels. They reach out in unison, and hug fiercely. His own eyes are wet when they break apart.

“Let's get him home.” Rick tells her.

* * *

Once the sound of engines have retreated far off in the night, the man finally deems it safe to push the weight of the corpse from him. Standing, he sighs heavily as he looks down at Mark. He'd always been a good man. So loyal, even in death. The man wonders fleetingly if Jason too lies somewhere among the bodies, but there's no time to stay and check. Already, walkers are streaming through the gap in their defences, attracted by the noise and light.  
He looks among the dead for weapons, and selects a few choice pieces before his eyes fall upon something else. A crossbow. It belongs to their -now former- prisoner, and it's the only ranged weapon he can see. The man picks it up, and swings it over his back.  
Without another look at his fallen men, he walks away, and is soon swallowed by the trees.

* * *

Daryl is febrile and delirious by the time they reach Alexandria. His eyes roll alarmingly when they pull him from the backseat of the car, and he murmurs something incoherent.

"Oh my god! You found him, you actually found him!" Tara's beams at them through the gate. "Eugeue, hurry up! Help me get this open!" Her smile fades when she looks properly at Daryl's limp form.

"We need to get him to the infirmary." Rick tells her.

"Me and Eugene got it ready while you were gone. You know... just in case." She doesn't say that she never expected them to find Daryl. She doesn't need to.

"Good, thanks. Eugene, we need a saw. Something to get the cuffs off him, think you got anything like that?"

"A circular saw could take those manacles off faster than a toupée in a tornado. I'll get searchin'."

Daryl groans as they lay him on the table in the infirmary.

"Where'd you say he was shot, Aaron?" Maggie asks, searching for obvious injuries as she gently pulls off Daryl's boots.

"Left shoulder. And then right thigh, I think." Rosita cuts through his shirt with a pair of kitchen scissors, and examines the shoulder.

"It's healed surprisingly well, considering." She touches the wound gingerly, and Daryl pulls away from her touch. Rick looks up at everyone watching with concern, and his heart swells with love for these people.

"You all did amazing to bring him home. You think one of you could go tell Carl? He'll want to know right away, if he hasn't already heard us get back.”

"I'll go. You guys probably need your space, anyway." Michonne says pointedly, patting Rick on the shoulder as she walks out. The others take the hint, and he's grateful for it. He thanks them again as they leave to get some rest, and finally it's just Maggie, Rosita, Carol and himself.

“Is he in pain?” Carol asks as Daryl groans again.

“Might just be the fever.” Maggie tells her. “He probably has an infection. If we could we'd give him an IV, but-” She taps the crook of Daryl's elbow and the back of his hand. “He's so dehydrated that I don't think we'd get a vein right now. We'll have to bring the temperature down, and when he's more lucid we can give him some water with painkillers and antibiotics. I don't know where the infection's comin' from though.”

“It's not the gunshot wounds,” Rosita tells them, cutting down the left leg of Daryl's pants and peeling back enough fabric to reveal a second patch of scarring skin. “Lucky it didn't hit the femoral artery.”

“We should check for exit wounds.” Rick says, as Carol reaches out for Daryl's hand.

“The leg is through-and-through. I didn't look at his shoulder, though. We'll have to roll him.”

“Careful,” Maggie warns them. “With bruisin' like that on his chest, there's probably a cracked rib or two. And we gotta be gentle with the cuffs, too, they don't look good.” Rick touches beneath his eye, where a dark bruise is starting to blossom.

“His right hook was still pretty powerful.”

* * *

It takes a long time to clean the wounds on Daryl's back. Rick is forced to hold him down a couple of times, and it makes him feel terrible. He remembers the table they saw back at the Wolves' hideout, and his stomach churns with guilt. Eugene comes to them with a saw, and the noise of metal cutting through metal sets everyone's teeth on edge, probably waking the entire community. They have to call Abraham back to help Rick keep Daryl still so Eugene doesn't accidentally cut right through a few fingers. Then the cuffs fall to the ground at last, and Carol tenderly sponges the blood from his wrists.  
When they're finally done and Daryl's calmer, Maggie cruses several pills into water, and they manage to sit him up long enough to drink some. The men lift him onto the infirmary bed, and Rick drops to the chair beside him.

“Thank you.” He says to the others. “Sincerely.” They smile back, each looking exhausted, and troop out. Carol sits on Daryl's other side. She pushes a few stray locks of hair from his face, watching his brow crease in sleep.

“Hopefully he'll be out a while.” Rick nods, leaning back heavily in his chair. Outside, the sun is slowly breaking over the houses of Alexandria, bathing them in a cool morning light.

“Yeah. I'm sure he'll feel a lot better if he gets some good sleep.”

* * *

Everything is confusing and contradictory. He's being taken somewhere, but they don't go left. They lay him on a table, but no one tries to pull him apart. Their touches are gentle, but he still hates the feel of it. Daryl thinks he might have been dreaming of his family again. His _real_ family, the one he never expected to find in the new world. He hears their soft voices, and doesn't want to open his eyes and find that they were never there.  
When he does open them he expects to be in a dark room once more, trapped in isolation, no light and no air. It's all wrong. It's bright, why is it so bright? He shuts his eyes tight again. And now he thinks on it, why is the floor no longer solid and cold beneath him? Daryl feels as though he's sinking through sand. He blinks several times, and the room gradually comes to focus through the crack in his eyelids. There's a chair at the edge of his vision, and for a heart-stopping moment, Daryl thinks it's the Rat come to watch again. But he starts to acclimate to the daylight streaming into the room, and realises that can't be right. The man sleeping in the chair beside him doesn't resemble the Rat at all- the limbs aren't long enough, the hair too light.  
Daryl just watches him for a time, trying to figure out if he's still dreaming. He doesn't speak, as though afraid his words might somehow blow the vision away. Even asleep, the man seems to feel the prolonged gaze upon him, and he wakes with a start.

Rick hasn't shaved in a while. There are bags under his eyes, one of them is purple with the beginnings of a bruise, and dried blood spatters his hands and his ripped shirt.

“You look like shit, man.” Daryl croaks.

“Daryl.” Rick moves his chair closer. His smile his genuine, but cautious. “I can't tell you how good it is to see you.” He reaches out as though to pat Daryl's arm, but hesitates.

“S'good to see you too.” Daryl makes an effort not to flinch as the fingers close lightly around his bicep.

“Carol was here, until,” Rick checks his watch. “'Bout a half hour ago, but I told her to go home and get some rest. She's gonna be pissed when she finds out she missed you waking up.” Daryl forces a weak smile, hoping to belay some of the anxiety in Rick's face.

“How many cookies you think she'll give me for this?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Rick gives a soft chuckle. “A lifetime's worth, maybe?” His face grows serious again. “How you feelin'?”

“'m alright.”

“No you're not.” Daryl shifts uncomfortably in bed.

“Then why'd you ask? Southern manners?” Rick smiles again, but he still looks worried.

“Somethin' like that. Here,” He takes a glass from the bedside cabinet. “You should drink the rest of this.”

“What is it?”

“Maggie made you a cocktail. It's got painkillers, antibiotics, a mild sedative-” Daryl pushes the offered glass away, only then realising that he's free of the last of his shackles. He rubs at the bandages on his wrists.

“Nah, not yet.” Rick gently pulls his hands apart.

“Daryl-”

“Not yet. Please.” He doesn't want to go back to sleep, because he's still not sure where he'll wake up. He pushes himself upright, dizzy and sore. Rick concedes, and sets the glass down.

“Hey, take it easy. Maggie thinks you've probably got fractured ribs. She and Rosita, they patched you up.”

“Hmm.” He's shirtless, and it makes his insides writhe to know that they've seen the evidence of his suffering imprinted on his skin. They've cut down the side of his pants, but he's relieved to see they didn't remove them entirely. A question lingers, one that Daryl knows Rick is trying to build up to. He's good at facing questions from the Rat with stony silence, but he'd hate hearing them from his friend. He doesn't want to tell the truth, doesn't want to lie.  
Daryl shifts until he can put one leg out of bed. He wants to get up, and he knows it'll distract Rick.

“Y'know, you're the worst patient. Where are you even going?”

“Dunno. Just need to stand up.” Rick sighs, but pulls Daryl's arm round his own shoulder and helps him to his feet.

“You wanna take a shower?” Daryl snorts.

“What, you sayin' I stink?” His legs tremble, but he manages to take a few steps forward with Rick guiding him.

“Well-” Rick smilesat him again. They're both trying hard to be normal with each other.

“Yeah, alright.”  
  
Getting up the stairs takes a toll, but he enjoys the shower as he never has before. The water's warm and gentle on his skin, and it feels good to rub away the weeks of grime, dirt, and blood. In some places, he has to scrub himself to get it off. When the water starts running clear, he shuts it off. He leans against the wall for a moment, head swimming.

“Daryl?” Rick's voice comes from through the crack in the door. He hadn't tried to insist he stayed in the room, but Daryl knew he'd be hovering right outside. “You alright?”

“Yup.” He dresses in the clothes Rick has found for him, standing with his back to the mirror and careful not to catch a look at himself.  
Getting downstairs is easier than going up, but Daryl's heart pounds with exhaustion as Rick finally lowers him back on the bed. When Rick offers it this time, he accepts the medicated water without argument, and goes back to sleep.

* * *

People drop in continuously throughout the day. Michonne brings Carl and Judith, and Rick hugs his children tight and listens to Carl's news since he's been away. Aaron and Eric bring a tupperware box of spaghetti, Maggie changes Daryl's bandage while Glenn hovers over her shoulder, until she tells him to “Sit down and quit makin' me nervous.”. Even Deanna pays a quick visit, face still gray with her own grief, to tell Rick she's glad they found their missing family member. He and Carol sit in the infirmary the whole time, and Daryl sleeps through all of it.  
As Rick had predicted, Carol hadn't been happy she'd missed Daryl's waking.

“So he didn't say anything? About any of it?”

“No. He woke up, took a shower, and went back to sleep. He didn't want to talk about it, and I didn't ask questions.”

“He might not ever want to talk about it.” Carol points out. “But that doesn't mean he shouldn't.” Rick sighs, trying not to seem impatient. He hasn't slept properly in days, and every inch of him hurts from sitting cramped in his chair all the time.

“I know. But we can't pressure him right now, or he'll shut himself up even more. You know it.” There's a pause. “Tell the truth, I'm not sure I'm ready to hear it yet.” Carol looks at him, but doesn't say anything. Rick wonders if she's judging him for it. Daryl mumbles something groggily, and they're both distracted. He opens his eyes, and they sweep blearily over the room before coming to rest on Carol.

“Hey, pookie.” She smiles, leaning forward to brush the hair from Daryl's face. “We missed you.” No reply comes, but he doesn't seem to mind when she gives him a soft kiss on the forehead.

“You hungry?” Rick asks. Daryl shrugs. He's actually starving, but somehow the thought of food makes him nauseous.

“Aaron and Eric brought you spaghetti,” Carol tells him, standing to plump Daryl's pillows. “But there's some chicken soup instead if you're not that hungry.”

“Whatever,” Daryl mutters, chewing his thumb. “Don't care.”  
Carol brings soup, and he eats half of it before it makes him sick, and she has to change her clothes. They sit together until long after midnight, the other two sometimes making idle chitchat, and Daryl's glad they don't push him to join in. When Carol yawns, he tells her to go home and rest, and she doesn't refuse. It feels weird that after wishing for her for weeks, Daryl suddenly has no idea know what to say to her. When she's gone, his eyes move to Rick's.

“I'm not going anywhere, so don't bother.” He doesn't. He's still tired, but he's had enough of sleeping for now.

“Help me up again?” Rick grimaces but doesn't argue.

“Where we goin' this time?”

“Outside. Wanna see the stars.” Rick's expression softens. He can hardly begrudge that to a man who's been locked up for so long. They make it outside, and he lets Daryl sink his weight against him as they look up at the sky.

“It's a beautiful night.” Daryl nods in agreement. He points to a cluster of stars above them with a shaking hand.

“See Orion?”

“Yeah. The hunter, right?”

“Yup. Story goes that he was close to Artemis- y'know, goddess of the hunt? Two of 'em were the best archers around. Then one day, Orion boasts he could kill every last creature on the planet and it pisses off the earth goddess, Gaia. So she sends a giant scorpion after him, and it catches up to him on a clifftop.” Daryl's already short of breath, but he keeps talking. “Only his arrows keep bouncin' off the hard shell, till eventually he's forced to jump off the cliffs into the sea. Artemis' twin brother Apollo tells her it was some terrible sea monster or somethin', tryin' to cause trouble I guess. So she shoots him. When she goes to claim the spoils, she finds out she killed her best friend.” He still hasn't taken his eyes from the constellation above, and Rick stares intently at him, not interrupting. “She begs the other gods to bring Orion back to life, but Zeus refuses to. So she hangs him up in the stars. Forever.” Rick doesn't know what to make of this story.

“Where'd you learn that?”

“My old man. Used to teach me and Merle how to use the stars to track, and sometimes he'd tell us their stories.” Daryl wishes he hadn't brought it up. His thoughts of his father are still muddled.

“Oh, hey. Forgot something,” Rick fishes in his pocket, and draws out a carton. “Carol found your vest. I think she's washing it, but these were in the pocket. He presses the cigarette and lighter into Daryl's hands.

“My vest?” Daryl asks numbly. Another thought occurs to him. “D'you see my bow out there?” There's a pregnant pause.

“No. I'm sorry, we were so wrapped up in trying to get you back that-” Daryl cuts him off.

“Nah, it's nothin'. You don't need to explain yourself. You came through for me.” The expression of guilt on Rick's face doesn't ease.

“I'm sorry it took us so long to get you out.”

“Stop it. I know.” Daryl catches his eye. He doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't _need_ to hear it. Far as he's concerned, Rick's doing right by him, as he always has.

“We were out looking every day, but-” He trails off hopelessly. Daryl looks away again, fiddles with the cigarettes. He lights one, and his face is momentarily illuminated in flame.

“How long?” He asks, voice muffled as he takes a drag.

“Almost three months.” Daryl nods, slowly breathing out the smoke. He had figured as much, though it had felt much longer when he was still trapped in his cage. “I'm sorry.” Rick says again.

“It's like I said. You came through. The rest don't matter.” It's been so long since Daryl's had a smoke, and it's already starting to make him light-headed. “I know what you'd have done for me. It's what I'd do for you.” He's staring resolutely downwards, picking at his nails.

“Can I ask you something?” Daryl's stomach plummets, already knowing Rick's question as surely as he had always known what the Rat's would be.

“Mmm.” The sound he makes is gruff, non-committal.

“What did they do to you?” Daryl doesn't want to lie, but he can't tell the truth.

“Stuff.” Is all he manages to say. Rick sighs.

“Stuff?”

“Yeah.” He chews his thumb nervously.

“I think we killed 'em all. When we got you back.”

“S'good.” Daryl looks up, then away again. “There was a man.” Rick's gaze doesn't falter.

“Yeah?”

“Tall, real skinny. Dark grey hair. You see him go down?” Rick tries to think back, but his attention hadn't wandered far from their goal of reaching Daryl. He shakes his head.

“None of them were alive when we left, I'm sure of it. But I didn't see him go down. I can ask one of the others- Rosita, or Abraham. Or Sasha?”

“Nah. Don't matter.” Rick can tell this is a lie. It clearly matters a great deal.

“Why'd you ask?” Daryl shrugs again, flicks the cigarette butt away from them towards the sidewalk. When Rick can stand the silence no longer, he continues. “Y'know, I was thinking that maybe you should come back to the house tomorrow. You can take my bed, I'll sleep on the sofa.”

“You gotta get up for the baby. I'll take the sofa.” Daryl pauses. “How is lil' asskicker? And Carl?”

“They're fine. And you are _not_ sleeping on the sofa.”

“They like it here?” He asks, ignoring the last comment.

“I think so. They'll be pleased to have you back home too. They came by to see you earlier, when you were asleep.” Daryl nods, trying to push himself to his feet. Rick offers him a hand.

“I got it.” He doesn't have it, and Rick has to catch him under the arm.

“This is for my safety as much as yours, Daryl. You break anything else, Maggie and Rosita will murder me in cold blood.” He helps Daryl back to bed, and resumes his vigil.  
  
Daryl dreams of the table and wakes in a cold sweat, fighting enemies who are already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Alexandria! There's a small chance the next chapter might be a little later than usual, due to life being life. Thanks for reading as always!


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

The track is faint, but distinctive. Daryl bends to inspect it, brushing away leaves the colour of sunset. He's in edge habitat, surrounded by mossy trees and dense shrubbery, and he's certain the deer he's tracking won't be far now. With a water source nearby and open fields just beyond, it was only a matter of waiting. Daryl hitches himself into a tree to get a better range of vision, and climbs as high up as is safe. The sun had slept as he'd left Alexandria, but it had since risen high above him. He takes a few moments to enjoy the warm embrace on his skin, taking several deep breaths of fresh, clean air.

The gun slung over his back feels uncomfortable and unfamiliar to hunt with, but it seems stupid to miss a crossbow so he doesn't complain. Rick hadn't seemed too pleased when Daryl had told him he was going to start hunting again, but he'd found the rifle for him anyway. Daryl didn't want to seem ungrateful, and it isn't a  _ bad  _ weapon. Just not what he's used to. He shifts it round now, tucking it more comfortably behind him as he sits in a branch and waits.

The young buck steps gracefully out onto the field, elegant head raised as he sniffs the air. Daryl's never minded killing deer, but he still appreciates their beauty. He watches until it's distracted, foraging in a nearby patch of long grass, then makes his way back to the ground.

He remembers to breathe as he aims, setting up his shot. The buck is dead before it hits the ground. Daryl wouldn't normally kill one this young, but he isn't yet returned to full strength, and he knows Carol will lecture him if he pushes himself too far. He's already stayed out too long, but it's hard to resist the lure of hunting when the alternative is the constant eyes upon him. Daryl hates it. He can't help but think if they look too long, they'll see what he's become. He knows they're worried, and he doesn't know how to stop it. Out in the forest, none of that matters, and he can keep himself busy and feed the people at Alexandria at the same time. It's peaceful, and he feels as close to being free as he can now.

* * *

“That smells amazing, Carol.” Maggie takes the lid from a steaming pot to inhale the rich, meaty scent wafting from within.

“Venison barley stew, thanks to Daryl.” Carol replies, taking down a stack of bowls from a cupboard and handing them. “That deer's feeding a lot of people tonight.”

“Where is he?” Rosita asks as she scoops a handful of cutlery from a drawer. “I haven't seen him since he got back this morning.

“Upstairs, resting I think. Dragging that buck all the way home really took it out of him. I'll go get him in a minute, see if he wants to join us.” Rick replies.

“Good. He brings back all this fresh meat for us, and I never see him eating it.” Glenn reaches out for a roll from the basket on the counter. Carol slaps his hand away.

“Yeah, he's not getting much. Carol has to bully him into eating most days.” Rick stands Judith on a barstool and gently bobs her up and down.

“Is he still burnin' the midnight oil?” Eugene asks.

“I hear him moving around a lot at night.” Carls volunteers, reaching out to Judith's outstretched arms and swinging her in an arc to rest on his hip.. “Not being loud or anything, just, like, pacing.” Rick can see the others exchanging looks.

“He just needs time.” He says in Daryl's defence, as he has many times before. “We just gotta be patient. Why don't you all go ahead and start? I'll be right back.”

Rick heads up the stairs, only to find Daryl sitting on the top step.

“Hey.”

“Hey. You heard that?”

“Yeah.” Rick joins him on the stairs.

“Everyone wants to spend time with you. You don't have to say anything. Just come down with me, try some of Carol's stew. I mean, it was you that did all the hard work.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Several people look up as they enter, but no one comments.

“What were you saying about those walkers, Abraham?” Michonne asks tactfully, keeping her eyes averted from Daryl as he folds himself in a corner.

“Huh?” Rosita elbows Abraham in the ribs. “Oof! Oh- yeah. There's more headin' down the southern road than usual. Was thinking I'd take a car and a few good people. Straighten that shit out at the source, wherever that may be.” Daryl dips a spoon in his bowl of stew, letting the gravy pool. Soft and liquid foods seem to go down easier, but he feels weirdly self-conscious eating in front of everybody.

“Okay, good plan. Make sure you keep Deanna in the loop, she'll wanna know about this.” Rick tells him, taking a bite of venison. It's tender and delicious, but he's too busy surreptitiously watching Daryl's progress through his meal to concentrate much on his own. Maggie turns to Carl as the conversation lulls.

“How's school goin'?” Carl shrugs.

“It's okay, I guess. We're 'sposed to be reading  _ To Kill a Mockingbird _ , but there's only one copy and Mikey's a slow reader.” Disjointed conversations gradually sprang up between the group, and Daryl relaxes enough to eat a few mouthfuls. He doesn't mean to worry them. It's like an alien personality has taken over, and he's forgotten how to be  _ him _ . He spent weeks locked away and desperate for his family, and now he can barely stand to be around them. They risked their lives to save him, and he repays them with silent avoidance. It makes him feel guilty. Each night, he tells himself that tomorrow will be the day he takes back control. He'll visit with Carol, and let her fuss over him. He'll help Sasha stand guard in the watchtower, or spend some time watching over Judith. Maybe he'll even ask Rick to talk, and reveal a little something of himself.

Then tomorrow comes, and Daryl can't stand the way they look at him with pity in their eyes. Can't stand being asked if he's okay a dozen times a day, when he's so clearly not okay. He's angry at everyone, and he has no right to be. It's been safer just to stay clear.

“Want a nip, Dixon?” Abraham startles him from his reverie. Daryl automatically reaches out for the bottle of amber liquid, raises it to his lips. The sour smell of whiskey hits him, and with it a hundred awful memories of a hundred different hands. His body moves of its own accord; before he even knows it the bottle hurls away from him. It splinters against the wall, shattering into dozens of tiny shards and leaving a dent in the plasterboard. The room falls silent, then Judith starts to wail. Rick's heart sinks as he watches Daryl flee from the room.

“C'mere, sweetheart.” He scoops Judith up and holds her close to his chest. “It's okay, it'll be okay.” He doesn't know if he's talking to himself or the baby. The front door slams.

“Somethin' I said?” Abraham asks the room at large, one eyebrow arched.

* * *

“You need to talk to Daryl.” Carol passes him a soapy plate. He wipes the suds away with his dishcloth, and replaces it in the cabinet, stalling for time. “I know you're still hoping he'll open up to us, but that's not the kind of person Daryl is. Has he ever talked to you about his father?” Rick's struck by an image of the scars littering Daryl's back, both old and new.

“Not really.” He admits. “I just keep thinkin' that with-” Carol cuts across him, sounding impatient.

“Time. Yes Rick, I know. But it's been a month already since we brought him home, and all I see is him closing himself off a little more each day.” Rick takes the cup she gives him, frowning slightly.

“Why don't you talk to him? He trusts you.” Carol sighs exasperatedly.

“Because it's  _ you  _ he needs acceptance from, not me.” She says, as though this much is obvious.

“Acceptance? What're you talkin' about?” He sets the cup down, still damp.

“He's ashamed, and he's afraid that you'll think less of him if he opens up to you.” Rick stares at her.

“But I wouldn't-”

“I know you wouldn't, Rick.” She says more kindly. “But Daryl doesn't. It's a stupid guy thing. And you need to dry that glass off properly, or the cupboard will smell of damp.” He picks the glass back up.

“But what does he have to be ashamed about?” Carol sets the washcloth down, and looks at him thoughtfully.

“C'mon, Rick.” She says softly. “Think about it.”

* * *

He does think about it, sitting on the porch, watching the light recede. He thinks about the kind of twisted mind that would beat a formerly abused child with a belt, and all the bruises still casting shadows on Daryl's skin. He forces his mind back to the walker then found back at the Wolves' camp, wearing nothing but his underwear, and the table decorated with blood and chains.  Daryl's never been particularly tactile, but ever since he recovered enough to support his own weight, he's been going out his way to avoid contact.  
Rick sits, and thinks, and waits.

His bones are stiff with cold by the time Daryl appears, with bloodshot eyes and bloody cuticles. He falters as he catches sight of Rick, who wonders if he is about to turn and walk away again.

“Seen Orion yet?” He asks, making room on the step. Daryl sits reluctantly.

“Yup. Clear night.” Rick says nothing, hoping the silence will prompt more. When it's clear this isn't going to work, he tries another tack.

“You feelin' better now?” Even under the pale moonlight, he can tell Daryl is blushing.

“Sorry.”

“There's no need to be.”

“Abraham mad?”

“Nope. Said it tasted like 'camel piss' anyway, so no harm done.” Daryl grunts in response. Rick decides to just get to the issue. “Look, you've been through a lot the past few months.” He pauses for a moment, and keeps his eyes on the skyline as Daryl shifts uncomfortably beside him. “And I just want you to know that we all understand. There's no judgement from any of us.” Daryl's thumb must be chewed raw by now, but he continues nibbling at it. Rick wants to gently ease his hand away, but he knows it will just scare him off. “We don't know everything they did to you, but I saw enough to know you must have had to be real strong to get through all that.” Daryl scoffs at that. Why does Rick continue to think of him as strong and stoic? He doesn't see it, doesn't have any idea of how far Daryl is sinking into weakness. “What I'm trying to say,” Rick swallows. “Is that we're all concerned about you, and it's important you know you can talk to us. To me. About anything.”

“S'hard.” Daryl mumbles through his thumb.

“I know. And it doesn't have to be tonight, or tomorrow. Doesn't have to be this week, even. But it's gotta be sometime, Daryl. Ain't no reason you should do all the heavy lifting.” Daryl smiles weakly.

“I'll try.” He shrugs.

* * *

The sun is waiting to burst through the dawn clouds, and Daryl paces in his room. If he wants to catch anything decent, he needs to leave now. He needs to leave five minutes ago. Ten minutes ago. Half an hour. Only he can't seem to force himself out the door. Rick's voice keeps replaying in his head, an endless echo.

“No judgement,” He'd said. “You can talk to us. To me. About anything.” Daryl tries to imagine what he himself would say, if their positions were reversed, but he can't imagine Rick ever letting himself be broken like this. They'd taken Daryl, and they probably would have just killed him if the Rat hadn't seen something in him that he wanted to twist and corrupt. Like his father, before that.

“ _ Useless. _ ” Will Dixon whispers.

“Useless.” Daryl repeats under his breath. Only Rick doesn't seem to see him like that. Daryl had told him he would try. He can only try.

* * *

Rick feels he's only been asleep for ten minutes when instinct seems to wake him. He raises his head groggily, and watches a shadow moving back and forth before him.

“Daryl? What are you doin'?” The hunter stops, looking at Rick. It doesn't look like he's slept any, but he's looking Rick right in the face, clearly trying to keep his gaze from darting away. Then he moves away, heading out to the hallway. Rick stands up, pulls on a jacket, and grabs a pair of boots. Daryl thrusts a rifle into his hands as the pair of them head out in the cold, still morning. Rick doesn't ask where they're going, just follows his friend out through the gates and into the forest.

They walk for hours, in silence. Rick can sense the importance of this, so he takes Daryl's lead, and keeps his tongue. He can hear the sound of gently trickling water up ahead, and the sounds of the nature coming alive as dawn approaches. Eventually, the trees make way, and they come across an open clearing. A river curls through the field and blossoms out into a pond. Late-blooming wildflowers sprout freely in shades of orange and yellow, tiny flames dancing in the morning breeze. It's so peaceful, just the two of them. Rick still says nothing, happy enough to be still.

“I'm glad you came for me,” Daryl says suddenly, as though it's a thought that's been stewing in his head a while. “Hope you know that. Know it don't seem like it, but I am.”

“I know.” Rick watches him walk a few paces ahead, and makes himself stay back.

“Were times when I-” Daryl's head drops to look at his feet. “When they-” Rick tries to imagine how he himself would even begin to explain, if it were him in Daryl's shoes.

"You can tell me, Daryl. I hope you know that." A blackbird soars over their heads and comes to rest in a nearby tree, singing and shaking its dark feathers. Both men watch it for a few moments. Slowly, and like someone waking from a long sleep, Daryl begins to talk.

He tells Rick about his cage, with the chains that disappeared one by one the closer his mind teetered towards the brink, and the darkness and isolation. He tells him about  _ Bad Moon Rising _ , and the same questions with the same answers, and how the Rat snapping his belt had taken Daryl back to the darkest moments of his childhood. He tells of Left and Right, and hearing the key in the door, about never knowing what it meant and whether he'd be glad or battered and bruised afterwards, and how he'd hate himself for being glad but hoped for it anyway. Daryl doesn't look round, and Rick doesn't speak. It makes it easier to keep going.

He stumbles over his words as he gets to the part with the unknown hands that left burning memory  by their touch, and the table that smelled of whiskey, and how he felt almost nothing during the times when it was over. He tells Rick that it was never long before it began again. He talks about the Rat coming to taunt him, telling him that no one would come for him, that he was broken and no one had ever wanted him from the minute he was born.

He knows he is talking more than he has perhaps ever done in his life, and when he's done he's exhausted and trembling with repressed emotion. Seconds tick by, filled only by the blackbird's song.

"Daryl?" Rick's voice is gentle, and he almost wishes it wasn't. Part of him wants Rick to walk away now, to leave him and not look back. "Daryl, please turn around." He doesn't. He can't. He hears Rick shift behind him. "Brother, look at me." There's that word again. Slowly, tentatively, Daryl turns. His eyes flash upwards for a heartbeat, then settle firmly on the ground. Rick dares a step closer, and Daryl doesn't move away. "I'm so sorry, for what you've been through. And I am... I'm real sorry we didn't find you sooner." There's raw sadness and guilt in Rick's voice, and Daryl makes eye contact for another brief moment.

"Don't matter. It ain't on you." He kicks a stone with the toe of his boot.

"No, it does matter. It does. Can- can I hug you?" Daryl gives an odd jerk of the head that might mean anything, but this time when their eyes meet, he doesn't look away, and Rick knows it's okay. He steps forward and pulls his best friend to him, the fingers of one hand curled in Daryl's hair, the other between the sharp bones of his shoulder blades.

When they pull apart, Daryl's eyes are wet and Rick pretends not to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shorter chapter guys, it just seemed right to end it here. The bad news is that there's only one chapter of this left. The good news is that I've probably written about 40,000 words across two new stories in the past 10 days or so.   
> Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Epilogue**   
  
Bright pockets of sunshine spill through the gaps in the trees, leaving towering shadows in their wake. Three people tread carefully through the fallen branches and dense 

“If we cut through here, we might be able to catch somethin’ on our way.” Daryl tells them, pointing through a gap amongst the bark. 

“Good idea.” Rick leads the way, ducking under a low-hanging branch with his hand resting on his knife. They find the mound of hill that will give them a birdseye view of the surrounding area. “You go up first.” Daryl scales the rock face, turning to help Carol up behind him, and she brushes the hair from his eyes as they turn to face the woods. 

“Looks like there’s a few of them down there.” She squints between the leaves. “Couple dozen or more.”

“I see ‘em.” Daryl goes to one knee at the edge of the precipice, hand shielding his eyes to give him better vision. “So much for gettin’ game, then. They’ll have chased off anythin’ worth our time.” 

“It won’t matter, if we can bring enough home from the run.” Rick checks his map. “We’re not too far off now.” 

“So Eugene really thinks this place might still have supplies?” Carol asks skeptically.

“Well, can’t be sure about anything these days. He thinks people might not have thought to check a water park out in the sticks. They might have canned food, and there’s bound to be a first aid tent or something.” They climb down the other side of the hill, always watching the others’ backs. “No harm in looking.”

“There might be tools, spare parts for the cars or some shit.” Daryl adds. They make their way back down the hill, moving quietly away from the small gathering of walkers until the trees conceal them once more. 

“Yeah, hopefully.” 

“Hold up- you hear that?” Daryl is as still as the lofty oaks surrounding them. They strain their ears, and Rick catches it too. The drawn-out wail on the wind, the sound of a human in great peril. They exchange a glance, but it’s Daryl who moves first.

“Shit.” Rick hisses through his teeth. “Daryl, hold up!” He and Carol give chase, twisting and turning through the undergrowth after their hunter. Daryl comes to a stop at the edge of a clearing, Rick grinding to a halt at his side. It’s one man against maybe fifteen walkers; a chunk of flesh already torn from the joint where shoulder meets neck. 

“What’s the matter?” Carol whispers, her dirt-streaked hand on Daryl’s arm. Rick looks at his closest friend, dark eyed and chest heaving, then back at the stranger. The man is tall, which means the walkers have more skin to gnaw on. He’s still trying to fight them off, screaming for help that can’t do anything for him.

“We should go,” Rick whispers. “Before they spot us.” Only Daryl’s pulling his gun free from its holster. He shoots the closest walker, its head exploding in a spatter of bone and brain matter. 

“Or not.” Carol pulls her knife free and throws herself into the fight. Rick pulls a walker away from Daryl and plunges his own blade in its skull. The battle is fierce, but brief. When the bodies lie forever silenced around them, Daryl moves closer to the dying man. He’s collapsed against a tree, gasping and shuddering and watching the hunter approach. Rick can’t read the silent exchange between them, but he can sense the pulsating anger.

Daryl doesn’t speak. He drops to his knees beside the man, wiping his knife clean on the grass. The man wheezes, spraying droplets of blood with every exhalation. 

“You,” he gasps, the word a rattle in his chest. “You.” Daryl twists the knife in his fingers, watching. He raises the knife, and pushes it through the man’s eye. Slowly, excruciatingly. When it’s done, he pulls the blade free, shaking some of the blood off with a flick of his wrist. He searches the area, turns the body over like he’s looking for something. He finds the crossbow. Rick exchanges a look with Carol, but neither says anything.

“C’mon,” he says. “Or we won’t get there till dark. Aaron ‘nd Eric are expectin’ me for dinner.” He walks away. He doesn’t look at the man, but there’s a suggestion of peace in his expression. Something just happened. Or more likely, something was finished. 

Rick catches up, resting a hand on Daryl’s shoulder. Not to halt him, just to let him know that there are people there for him if he needs them.

* * *

Killing the Rat wouldn’t make the dreams go away, Daryl knew it. The memories would still be there, the sweat-inducing reminders of the time he spent away from his family. He didn’t think he could ever drink whiskey again, or look at the table in Denise’s infirmary without wanting to turn heel and run. No, the Rat’s death wasn’t like closing a book. It was more like filling in a blank page that you thought had been lost forever.   
There were times in the night when he still felt the ghost of a hand on his skin, when he’d awake with a start and expect to find himself back in chains. Rick always came, never let him be alone when the whisper in Daryl’s head began to roar. Carol let him drag her out to the forest when he wanted to get away, trailing patiently behind him for hours at a time. Maggie and Glenn discovered they had created new life, and shared the news with Daryl first with a request for him to be godfather. It didn’t mean anything more than a word in this existence, and yet it meant everything. Aaron and Eric invited him for dinner every week like clockwork, Rosita helped him fletch his bolts on nights when sleep evaded him. Abraham and Sasha invited him to join their patrols, and Eugene made his characteristic awkward comments whenever their paths crossed.   
It had felt overwhelming at first. Daryl had thought they all pitied him, and maybe he’d been right.    
When he’d spilled his secrets to Rick however, he’d realised that more than anything they just wanted him to be  _ with  _ them again. Not a presence in the corner or an echo of a person. Pity or no, they accepted him without question. They hadn’t stopped looking, hadn’t given up on him. They’d laid their lives on the line to save him.

The next night when Daryl sits beside Rick on the sofa, family surrounding him and lifting his heart with their laughter, he feels peaceful. Carol passes out heaped plates of the canned macaroni they’d found at the water park, and Abraham produces several bottles of beer. He subtly raises his eyebrow at Daryl, who gives him a small nod. A bottle is pressed into his hand. Rosita draws him into a discussion with Eugene over the best method of crafting bolts. Sasha squeezes his shoulder as she passes. When it starts to feel a little much, Rick knocks his knee against Daryl’s, and it reminds him to focus on where he is and not what he feels.

Daryl is coming to think that with the right people around you, it’s impossible to be totally broken. There might still be parts of you chiseled away or cracks in the foundation, but if someone loves you enough, they make you up into a new kind of whole. Sometimes the shape of your mind changes, but that doesn’t make it wrong or twisted. Sometimes, you just have to fill up the empty parts with what other people make you.

For Daryl, that is his family.   
  
**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this several times but I've always struggled with final chapters. Sorry it's short!
> 
> Anyway, thank you if you've made it this far, and BIG thank you to those of you that have commented throughout. It gave me a boost, and I really appreciate it.


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